We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed.

In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night.

What is not grasped has all the chances to become real.

The hand opens to the word, opens to distance.

As long as we are not chased from our words we have nothing to fear. As long as our utterances keep their sound we have a voice. As long as our words keep their sense we have a soul.

By the light of our insistent truths we wander into death.

I believe in the writer’s mission. He receives it from the word, which carries its suffering and its hope within it. He questions the words, which question him. He accompanies the words, which accompany him. The initiative is shared, as if spontaneous.

It is not certainty which is creative, but the uncertainty we are pledged to in our works.

The book is an unbearable totality. I write against a background of facets.

Through the ear, we shall enter the invisibility of things.