In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night. — Edmond Jabes Copy Share Image
WIDE, the margin between carte blanche and the white page. Nevertheless it is not in the margin that you can find me, but in the yet whiter one that separates the word-strewn sheet from the transparent, the written page from… — Edmond Jabes Copy Share Image
It is very hard to live with silence. The real silence is death and this is terrible. To approach this silence, it is necessary to journey to the desert. You do not go to the desert to find identity, but to loses it, to lose your personality, to be anonymous. You make yourself void. You become silence. You become more… — Edmond Jabes Copy Share
For the writer, discovering the work he will write is both like a miracle and a wound, like the miracle of the wound. — Edmond Jabes Copy Share Image
We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed. — Edmond Jabes Copy Share Image
Only what touches us closely preoccupies us. We prepare in solitude to face it. (The Little Book of Unsuspected Subversion) — Edmond Jabes Copy Share Image
Silence is no weakness of language. It is, on the contrary, its strength. It is the weakness of words not to know this. — Edmond Jabes Copy Share Image
The book is an unbearable totality. I write against a background of facets. — Edmond Jabes Copy Share Image
“In your loneliness, you hear the word from far away and then, in gratitude, look at it so closely that you cannot but drown… — Edmond Jabès Copy Share Image
It is not certainty which is creative, but the uncertainty we are pledged to in our works. — Edmond Jabes Copy Share Image
