Virginia Woolf:  “What is the phrase for the moon?  And the phrase for love?  By what name are we to call death?  I do not know.  I need a little language such as lovers use, words of one syllable such as children speak when they come into the room and find their mother sewing and pick up the scrap of bright wool, a feather, or a shred of chintz.  I need a howl; a cry.”

Jean-Luc Godard:  “Put another way, it seems to me that we have to rediscover everything about everything…There have been periods of organization and imitation and periods of rupture.  We are now in a period of rupture.  We must turn to life again.  We must move into life with a virgin eye.”

Carole Maso:  “Precious words, contoured by silence.  Informed by the pressure of the end.

Words are the lines vibrating in the forest or in the painting.  Pressures that enter us – bisect us, disorder us, unite us, free us, help us, hurt us, cause anxiety, pleasure, pain.

There is no substitute for the language I love.

I close my eyes and hear the intricate chamber music of the world.  An intimate, complicated, beautiful conversation in every language, in every tense, in every possible medium and form – incandescent.”

Jacques Derrida:  “Shall I just listen?  Or observe?  Both…reading proceeds in no other way.  It listens in watching.

Writing…coordinates the possibilities of seeing, touching, and moving.  And of hearing and understanding…Writing…gives itself over to anticipation…associated with the hands, not the eyes, it must recognize before it cognizes, apprehend leading toward comprehension”