because it is immediately transformed into a sign: it is the sign, not the fact, which is consequential (by its aura).

but in the aspect of a sign which must be interpreted. From the lover's point of view, the fact becomes consequential

But for me, an amorous subject, everything which is new, everything which disturbs, is received not as a fact

What is futile is what apparently has and will have no consequence.

My anxieties as to behavior are futile, ever more so, to infinity.

silence is echoing

nothing friendly that might warm ("I'm cold, let's go back to Paris)

(faint murmur of draining bathtubs); the furniture and the lamps are stupid;

I pick up a book and take a sleeping pill, "calmly."

they merely wait for a little time to pass in order to be able to declare themselves with some propriety.

The anxieties are already here, like the poison already prepared (jealousy, abandonment, restlessness);

This endured absence is nothing more or less than forgetfulness. I am, intermittently, unfaithful. This is the condition of my survival.

For me the noise of Time is not sad...

no, this is not a relapse, only a last soubresaut, a final convulsion...

and I add to these wounds the discouragement of having to acknowledge that I am falling back, relapsing...

I keep tormenting myself with the thought, desire, regret, and rage of the Other;

Your vigilance as an artist is an amorous vigilance, a vigilance of desire.

Everything signifies: by this proposition, I entrap myself, I bind myself in calculations, I keep myself from enjoyment.

By which it must be understood that it cannot prove, not only what it says, but even that it is worth the trouble of saying it.

Literature is without proofs.