I used to be someone else. I can't be her anymore.
The short version is that I had a reader who would not go away, who claimed precedence on all interpretations, who insisted that, no matter what, I was required to remain transparent to him. And eventually I realized that I couldn't write like that, that I was no longer safe, and that I had to be the one to leave.
It feels a bit like going into hiding.
Who I was, there, needs to remain there. I will say more soon about who I am here, about the connotations and associations that have come together to make this new set of texts.
For now, I ask only that you attempt to take seriously Derrida's much-misunderstood assertion that there is nothing outside the text.
One more pseudonym. One more time.
About Me
- the other woman
- "She did not know if she did it on purpose, but she lived as a fatality the necessity of destining her pleasure to the absent one, who moreover was not always the same, the other of the other always possibly being an other. This is naturally, and here I have to quote her, a 'surplus' of always available pleasure, and a 'fatal deprivation.' After a silence: the day that I love someone, man or woman, I am certain, or I believe that it will stop, in any event this is how I will recognize love. I have loved a lot, however, without ever abandoning myself to those I loved, presently I mean. And up to the present. Another silence (I had already asked for the bill) and without anything provocative or vulgar, with a kind of confidence which I still like to think of: I have the feeling that with you [vous] it would be different." (Derrida, Envois)
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