To Eat, To Speak, To

Take The Gesture, The Action Of Writing. I Have An Almost Obsessive Relation To Writing Instruments. I Often Switch From One Pen To Another Just For The Pleasure Of It. I Try Out New Ones. I Have Far Too Many Pens - I Don't Know What To Do With All Of Them! And Yet, As Soon As I See A New One, I Start Craving It. I Cannot Keep Myself From Buying Them.

Language Is A Skin: I Rub My Language Against The Other. It Is As If I Had Words Instead Of Fingers, Or Fingers At The Tip Of My Words. My Language Trembles With Desire.

I Am Interested In Language Because It Wounds Or Seduces Me.

Myth Is Neither A Lie Nor A Confession: It Is An Inflexion.

In Front Of The Photograph Of My Mother As A Child, I Tell Myself: She Is Going To Die: I Shudder, Like Winnicott's Psychotic Patient, Over A Catastrophe Which Has Already Occurred. Whether Or Not The Subject Is Already Dead, Every Photograph Is This Catastrophe.