I Do Not Believe In Pure Idioms.

My Most Resolute Opponents Believe That I Am Too Visible, That I Am A Little Too Alive, That My Name Echoes Too Much In The Texts Which They Nevertheless Claim To Be Inaccessible.

Still Today, I Cannot Cross The Threshold Of A Teaching Institution Without Physical Symptoms, In My Chest And My Stomach, Of Discomfort Or Anxiety. And Yet I Have Never Left School.

Peace Is Only Possible When One Of The Warring Sides Takes The First Step, The Hazardous Initiative, The Risk Of Opening Up Dialogue, And Decides To Make The Gesture That Will Lead Not Only To An Armistice But To Peace.

But Because Me And Myself, As You No Doubt Are Well Aware, We Are Going To Die, My Relation—and Yours Too—to The Event Of This Text, Which Otherwise Never Quite Makes It, Our Relation Is That Of A Structurally Posthumous Necessity. Suppose, In That Case, That I Am Not Alone In My Claim To Know The Idiomatic Code (whose Notion Itself Is Already Contradictory) Of This Event. What If Somewhere, Here Or There, There Are Shares In This Non-secret’s Secret? Even So The Scene Would Not Be Changed. The Accomplices, As You Are Once Again Well Aware, Are Also Bound To Die.

Within The University... You Can Study Without Waiting For Any Efficient Or Immediate Result. You May Search, Just For The Sake Of Searching, And Try For The Sake Of Trying. So There Is A Possibility Of What I Would Call Playing. It's Perhaps The Only Place Within Society Where Play Is Possible To Such An Extent.