#rootprints

[theoptia]

Hélène Cixous, from Hélène Cixous, Rootprints

Text ID: it begins with a burning in the chest, and afterwards it is called love.

[galaxy-vintage]

I touch your secret, with my body. I touch your secret with my secret and that is not exchanged. But smiling, we share the bitter and sweet taste (regret and desire mixed) of that impossibility.— Hélène Cixous, from Rootprints: Memory and Life Writing; “Poetry, Passion and History,”

[theoptia]

Hélène Cixous, from Hélène Cixous, Rootprints

Text ID: We know, […] where the other's vulnerable heart is situated; and we do not touch it; we leave it intact. This is love.

[theoptia]

Hélène Cixous, from Hélène Cixous, Rootprints

Text ID: Always in the process of betraying (ourself), of leaving (ourself).

[theoptia]

Hélène Cixous, from Hélène Cixous, Rootprints

Text ID: The word ‘entredeux’: it is a word I used recently in Déluge to designate a true in-between—between a life which is ending and a life which is beginning. For me, an entredeux is: nothing. It was, because there is entredeux. But it is—I will go through metaphors—a moment in a life where you are not entirely living, where you are almost dead. Where you are not dead. Where you are not yet in the process of reliving.

[theoptia]

Hélène Cixous, from Hélène Cixous, Rootprints

Text ID: It's that we do not stop being in the process of living, even when we are in the process of dying. At the edge of the tomb, we live,

[theoptia]

Hélène Cixous, from Hélène Cixous, Rootprints

Text ID: Fever, which is unbearable, is a defensive phenomenon. It is a combat. It is the same for suffering: in suffering there is a whole manœuvre of the unconscious, of the soul, of the body, that makes us come to bear the unbearable.

[theoptia]

Hélène Cixous, from Hélène Cixous, Rootprints

Text ID: Hélène Cixous: What is most true is poetic. What is most true is naked life. I can only attain this mode of seeing with the aid of poetic writing. I apply myself to 'seeing' the world nude, that is, almost to e-nu-merating the world, with the naked, obstinate, defenceless eye of my nearsightedness. And while looking very very closely, I copy. The word written nude is poetic.