I Am Interested In Language

Who Speaks Is Not Who Writes, And Who Writes Is Not Who Is.

The Text Is A Tissue Of Quotations Drawn From The Innumerable Centres Of Culture.

Literature Is The Question Minus The Answer.

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.

Is The Scene Always Visual? It Can Be Aural, The Frame Can Be Linguistic: I Can Fall In Love With A Sentence Spoken To Me: And Not Only Because It Says Something Which Manages To Touch My Desire, But Because Of Its Syntactical Turn (framing), Which Will Inhabit Me Like A Memory.