To abolish death
We die from habit, finding refuge in leisure, in the style and passion of gigantic illuminated letters randomly drifting through our brains. Their message is simple, transparent. Meanwhile, we consent to the illusion that the living world, itself, becomes simply the effect of reduced vision. In the total clarity of those suburban insomniacs, we speak the same language. A language that must never relieve us from the need to feel close to each other and from expounding on the unlikely and painful privilege of being driven by an inner life.
Invoking Joyce, Loyola, Sade, Broodthaers, Duchamp, Ponge, Warhol and other fetishist saints, not to speak of all those major petit-bourgeois writers who console us by demonstrating that the real revolution is one of language and that the word is no more than a pretext for reassembling whatever’s missing from stabilizing our fundamental relation to being.
© translated by Gian Lombardo