∅

The compass, the sphere, the millstone, the hammer, the scales, and the straightedge, which the melancholic project has emptied of their habitual meaning and transformed into images of its own mourning, have no other significance than the space they weave during the epiphany of the unattainable. Since the lesson of melancholy is that only what is ungraspable can truly be grasped, the melancholic alone is at his leisure among these ambiguous emblematic spoils. As the relics of a past on which is written the Edenic cipher of infancy, these objects have captured forever a gleam of that which can be possessed only with the provision that it be lost forever.

I was glad that what I loved was not loved by those who delight in talking of what they love. I liked to hide what I loved. It did good to me to have a secret, which I carried within me like a conviction and like a seed.

Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

In the antigarden represented by the desert, the question accompanying the poet like her shadow under the sun is: Who am I to be so alone? Who am I if I am not with another? The demand for another is always mute but piercing. All these texts ask for another and all the poets ask for another language, even for a foreign language perhaps, because the essence of poetry is to find strangeness in language.

On leaving, you circulate among the things you own to say farewell, properly, knowing they will not cease to exist after your departure, but go, slowly, each in its own way, wild.

we were feeling our way through the right to rise luminous