But My Silence Is Real.

I Wanted To See Something In Full Daylight; I Was Sated With The Pleasure And Comfort Of The Half Light; I Had The Same Desire For The Daylight As For Water And Air. And If Seeing Was Fire, I Required The Plenitude Of Fire, And If Seeing Would Infect Me With Madness, I Madly Wanted That Madness.

To See Was Terrifying, And To Stop Seeing Tore Me Apart From My Forehead To My Throat.

Every Artist Is Linked To A Mistake With Which He Has A Particular Intimate Relation. There Is The Mistake Of Homer, Of Shakespeare — Which Is Perhaps, For Both, The Fact Of Not Existing. Every Art Draws Its Origin From An Exceptional Fault, Every Work Is The Implementation Of This Original Fault, From Which Come To Us A New Light And A Risky Conception Of Plenitude.

What If What Has Been Said One Time Not Only Does Not Cease To Be Said But Always Recommences, And Not Only Recommences But Also Imposes Upon Us The Idea That Nothing Has Ever Truly Begun, Having From The Beginning Begun By Beginning Again.

The Disaster... Is What Escapes The Very Possibility Of Experience—it Is The Limit Of Writing. This Must Be Repeated: The Disaster De-scribes.