I Love Language As I

In Algeria, I Had Begun To Get Into Literature And Philosophy. I Dreamed Of Writing-and Already Models Were Instructing The Dream, A Certain Language Governed It.

The Poet…is The Man Of Metaphor: While The Philosopher Is Interested Only In The Truth Of Meaning, Beyond Even Signs And Names, And The Sophist Manipulates Empty Signs…the Poet Plays On The Multiplicity Of Signifieds.

Such A Caring For Death, An Awakening That Keeps Vigil Over Death, A Conscience That Looks Death In The Face, Is Another Name For Freedom.

Every Discourse, Even A Poetic Or Oracular Sentence, Carries With It A System Of Rules For Producing Analogous Things And Thus An Outline Of Methodology.

I Would Like To Write You So Simply, So Simply, So Simply. Without Having Anything Ever Catch The Eye, Excepting Yours Alone, ... So That Above All The Language Remains Self-evidently Secret, As If It Were Being Invented At Every Step, And As If It Were Burning Immediately