I Speak Only One Language,

Beyond The Touchline There Is Nothing.

I Have Always Had School Sickness, As Others Have Seasickness. I Cried When It Was Time To Go Back To School Long After I Was Old Enough To Be Ashamed Of Such Behavior.

A Text Is Not A Text Unless It Hides From The First Comer, From The First Glance, The Law Of Its Composition And The Rules Of Its Game. A Text Remains, Moreover, Forever Imperceptible. Its Laws And Rules Are Not, However, Harbored In The Inaccessibility Of A Secret; It Is Simply That They Can Never Be Booked, In The Present, Into Anything That Could Rigorously Be Called A Perception.

But Because Me And Myself, As You No Doubt Are Well Aware, We Are Going To Die, My Relation—and Yours Too—to The Event Of This Text, Which Otherwise Never Quite Makes It, Our Relation Is That Of A Structurally Posthumous Necessity. Suppose, In That Case, That I Am Not Alone In My Claim To Know The Idiomatic Code (whose Notion Itself Is Already Contradictory) Of This Event. What If Somewhere, Here Or There, There Are Shares In This Non-secret’s Secret? Even So The Scene Would Not Be Changed. The Accomplices, As You Are Once Again Well Aware, Are Also Bound To Die.

As Soon As There Is Language, Generality Has Entered The Scene.