It is because of this sea between us. The earth has never, up to now, separated us. But, ever since yesterday, there has been something in this nonetheless real, perfectly Atlantic, salty, slightly rough sea...

It was the first play we were ever involved in together, … and, because it was concerned with the condition of French convicts, we performed it – we began to perform it – in front...

Meditation needs no results. Meditation can have itself as an end, I meditate without words and on nothingness. What tangles my life is writing.

This is what’s happening: together we are descending the stairs of the heart, which lead to the sources. (It is a secret staircase. I knew it existed. Which is why I avoided it. Because it...

But I may also be afraid.I am afraid.I have already read it. And, not to lie to you, I liked it. But I am afraid. I am not afraid of you, Fidelia, Sania, Ania. I...

It is totally different from my philosophical work,

Writing is the delicate, difficult, and dangerous means of succeeding in avowing the unavowable.

We are going toward the sea. I have swollen. I am carried away. Sometimes at night love comes up so quickly and so high, and if we have no little boat perhaps it is because...

to the depths, to the depths.

I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst-burst with forms much more beautiful...

To fly/steal is woman’s gesture, to steal into language to make it fly.

Women must write through their bodies, they must invent the impregnable language that will wreck partitions, classes, and rhetorics, regulations and codes, they must submerge, cut through, get beyond the ultimate reverse-discourse, including the one...

Wouldn’t the worst be, isn’t the worst, in truth, that women aren’t castrated, that they have only to stop listening to the Sirens (for the Sirens were men) for history to change its meaning?

And why don’t you write? Write! Writing is for you, you are for you; your body is yours, take it. I know why you haven’t written. (And why I didn’t write before the age of...

You have it.

Men have committed the greatest crime against women. Insidiously, violently, they have led them to hate women, to be their own enemies, to mobilize their immense strength against themselves, to be the executants of their...

I do believe in poetry. I believe that there are creatures endowed with the power to put things together and bring them back to life

All I know: I could only encounter you, my oasis, coming out of a desert. Deserted myself. This is all right. My futureless and solitary self. When suddenly I hear the voice of the springs–Right...

But I am just a woman who thinks her duty is not to forget. And this duty, which I believe I must fulfill, is: “as a woman” living now I must repeat again and again...

I Drink. I Burn. I Dream.And Sometimes, I tell Stories !

Perhaps what I do not manage to operate rapidly enough is the passage between the outside and the inside.

-All that because Promethea is a woman? All this uproar, this trembling, this resistance?–Yes. No. Y-Yes…Naynayno. Whynoyes.Yes, Promethea is a woman.Yes, but “because is a woman,” that is not important.But no it precisely its not...

Reading is not as insignificant as we claim. First we must steal the key to the library. Reading is a provocation, a rebellion: we open the book’s door, pretending it is a simple paperback cover,...

Only when you are lost can love find itself in you without losing its way.

You can go on losing after loss.

Almost every day I can feel myself suffering mainly in the head, I can explain the pain to myself but knowing it comes from an inflammation of my imagination doesn’t prevent it being reality itself....

The natural characters in the drama are not supposed to be philosophical, nor are they people with any refined kind of knowledge. They may be particularly blind or they may be suffering from the heaviness...

Losing is all that’s left, I say.- Losing is all we’ve got left to lose, you sayThe impossibility of not telling, I cannot do otherwise, one can only tell otherwise, with always the same need...

You make me thirsty, Promethea, my river, you make me eternally thirsty, my water. As if I had spent my life in an old house of dried mud, so dry myself that I could not...

This is an image of Babel,

We should write as we dream; we should even try and write, we should all do it for ourselves, it’s very healthy, because it’s the only place where we never lie. At night we don’t...

You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing.

And I? I drink, I burn, I gather dreams.And sometimes I tell a story. Because Promethea asks me for a bowl of words before she goes to sleep.

Philosophically speaking, the whole show deals with different aspects of the paradoxes of hospitality,

When I write, it’s everything that we don’t know we can be that is written out of me, without exclusions, without stipulation, and everything we will be calls us to the unflagging, intoxicating, unappeasable search...

So! You don’t love me!” and bucks me off, sends me flying to the hyenas, if ever the paper ladder that I climb so easily to go pick stars for Promethea—at the very instant that...