“Those I love go in the direction of what they call the last hour—what Clarice Lispector calls, “the hour of the star,”… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
Love is when you suddenly wake up as a cannibal, and not just any old cannibal, or else wake up destined for… — Helene Cixous Copy Share Image
“To be afraid is the condition of loving knowledge. Were I not dying of fear, I'd not know how to exist myself,… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“We are going toward the sea. I have swollen. I am carried away. Sometimes at night love comes up so quickly and… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“The more I anoint the more my mind adheres physically to the mysterious fabric of love. I am decutie . Worn thin.… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“We should write as we dream; we should even try and write, we should all do it for ourselves, it’s very healthy,… — Helene Cixous Copy Share Image
There is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb-it-doesn’t-eat. — Helene Cixous Copy Share Image
“For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“When I write, all those that we don’t know we can be write themselves from me, without exclusion, without prediction, and everything… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
When I write, it's everything that we don't know we can be that is written out of me, without exclusions, without stipulation,… — Helene Cixous Copy Share Image
“(Because Jonah’s real story is the one never told: never was he as stupendously happy as during those three days and three nights of… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
What happens: events interiors, snatch them from the cradle, from the source. I want to watch watching arrive. I want to watch arrivances. I… — Helene Cixous Copy Share Image
“And I? I drink, I burn, I gather dreams. And sometimes I tell a story. Because Promethea asks me for a bowl of words… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“The author of what I describe is not myself, it is the Other. First of all it is you, it is the woman, it… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
Perhaps what I do not manage to operate rapidly enough is the passage between the outside and the inside. — Helene Cixous Copy Share Image
“To fly/steal is woman’s gesture, to steal into language to make it fly.” — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“Those I love go in the direction of what they call the last hour—what Clarice Lispector calls, “the hour of the star,” “the hour… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“...and this morning I am without fire, my marrow is ash, I am very sad.” — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“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 Copy Share Image
“Here I am now. And it is hell. Paradise? Yes, I still am here, but who? only myself, with my small waist, my small… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
