Hélène Cixous, from “The Selected Plays of Hélène Cixous.”
[ Text ID: I ache, I never stop aching. Look at me. I wish I could step into your eyes. I wish you would close your eyes.]
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Hélène Cixous, Stigmata
Reading in Painting.
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A web weaving of codependency plsss
'To death do us part' in the most literal sense
... I hope you weren't wanting something more romantic, aha. 'This is not a love poem' and all that.
Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel | The Body, Stephen King | Iain S. Thomas | Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë | Crescendo, Becca Fitzpatrick | Kin, Maya Angelou | 2 Truths and a Lie, Angelea Lowes | The Love of the Wolf, Hélène Cixous | Beau Taplin | No Exit, Jean-Paul Sartre | The Sea, the Sea, Iris Murdoch
[text transcription and image ID in alt text]
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The Death of Innocence
Readings: the Poetics of Blanchot, Joyce, Kafka, Kleist, Lispector, and Tsvetaeva, Hélène Cixous// Zhaoming Wu// The Last days of Judas Iscariot, Stephen Adly Guirgis// The Miracle Mile, Yves Olade// "In Which God is a Married Man and I am his Lover "// Portrait, Miguel L Fisher //"Should've, Could've, Would've", Taylor Swift//
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I am only a fragment.
~Hélène Cixous
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Hélène Cixous, from The Selected Plays of Hélène Cixous; “Portrait of Dora”
Text ID: It’s in your silences that I’d like to touch you.
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Writing, in its noblest function, is the attempt to unerase, to unearth, to find the primitive picture again, ours, the one that frightens us.
Hélène Cixous, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing
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“And I? I drink, I burn, I gather dreams.”
// Hélène Cixous, The Book of Promethea,
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What I write then knows neither limit nor hesitation. Without censorship. Between night and day. I receive the message. I receive without trembling.
— Hélène Cixous, from "Conversation with the Donkey,” Stigmata: Escaping Texts
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— Hélène Cixous, from “Hyperdream.”
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One must almost die in order to take pleasure in being made of flesh, we’ve always known this.
Hélène Cixous, Stigmata: Escaping Texts; from ‘What Is It O’Clock? Or the Door (We Never Enter)', tr. Catherine A. F. MacGillivray
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Completely lost between love and desire.
-Hélène Cixous
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And so when you have lost everything, no more roads, no direction, no fixed signs, no ground, no thoughts able to resist other thoughts, when you are lost, beside yourself, and you continue getting lost, when you become the panicky movement of getting lost, then, that’s when, where you are unwoven weft, flesh that lets strangeness come through, defenseless being, without resistance, without batten, without skin, inundated with otherness, it’s in these breathless times that writings traverse you, songs of an unheard-of purity flow through you, addressed to no one, they well up, surge forth, from the throats of your unknown inhabitants, these are the cries that death and life hurl in their combat.
Hélène Cixous, "Coming to Writing" and Other Essays
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Of what secret lights are we made?
Of what densities?
~Hélène Cixous
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