I do everything I think possible or acceptable to escape from this trap.
I say things that contradict each other, that are in real tension with each other, that compose me, that make me live, and that will make me die.
I always dream of a pen that would be a syringe.
If things were simple, word would have gotten around.
I was wondering myself where I am going. So I would answer you by saying, first, that I am trying, precisely, to put myself at a point so that I do not know any longer where I am going.
If I only did what I can do, I wouldn’t do anything.
Contrary to what phenomenology- which is always phenomenology of perception- has tried to make us believe, contrary to what our desire cannot fail to be tempted into believing, the thing itself always escapes.
We are all mediators, translators.
I speak only one language, and it is not my own.
Everything is arranged so that it be this way, this is what is called culture.
The end approaches, but the apocalypse is long lived.
Surviving – that is the other name of a mourning whose possibility is never to be awaited.
I am one of those marranes who no longer say they are Jews even in the secret of their own hearts.
No one gets angry at a mathematician or a physicist whom he or she doesn’t understand, or at someone who speaks a foreign language, but rather at someone who tampers with your own language.
Still today, I cannot cross the threshold of a teaching institution without physical symptoms, in my chest and my stomach, of discomfort or anxiety. And yet I have never left school.
Who ever said that one was born just once?
It is to have a compulsive, repetitive, and nostalgic desire for the archive, an irrepressible desire to return to the origin, a homesickness, a nostalgia for the return to the most archaic place of absolute commencement.
Beauty only happens once.
Each time this identity announces itself, someone or something cries: Look out for the trap, youre caught. Take off, get free, disengage yourself.
Cinema plus Psychoanalysis equals the Science of Ghosts.