Le Langage Est Une Peau:

Don't Say Mourning. It's Too Psychoanalytic. I'm Not Mourning. I'm Suffering.

Pleasure Is Continually Disappointed, Reduced, Deflated, In Favor Of Strong, Noble Values: Truth, Death, Progress, Struggle, Joy, Etc. Its Victorious Rival Is Desire: We Are Always Being Told About Desire, Never About Pleasure.

The Haiku Reproduces The Designating Gesture Of The Child Pointing At Whatever It Is (the Haiku Shows No Partiality For The Subject), Merely Saying: That!

Literature Is That Which He Can Not Read Without Pain, Without Choking On Truth.

It Is Said That Mourning, By Its Gradual Labour, Slowly Erases Pain; I Could Not, I Cannot Believe This; Because For Me, Time Eliminates The Emotion Of Loss (i Do Note Weep), That Is All. For The Rest, Everything Has Remained Motionless. For What I Have Lost Is Not A Figure (the Mother), But A Being; And Not A Being, But A Quality (a Soul): Not The Indispensable, But The Irreplaceable.