My life began, begins in the book.
Take Derrida’s Clang (Glas) for example.
What does a dialogue, set down as counterbalance to anOther of like and kind, do—what does it be-come?
A ≠ A
So, when I sit down at the breakfast table, I have entered into a world of consumptive trouble and possible cannibalisation—there are other bodies there (animal & person), eyes out for devouring, hands grasping in a soft sunlight : the antique cinematographic technique of naturalism & error, visible grains on the apparent surface.
A ≠ A
And I do believe I am less than anyone else.
But… that only ever increases my interest in a blind desirability.
Also, no one yet knows how to read Clang, Derrida, or this “novel”— the last is least of all relevance.