“Everything she wanted to tell her, was unable to tell her, because she was afraid of hearing her own voice come out of her heart and be covered with blood, and then she poured all the blood into these syllables,… — Hélène Cixous Copy Share Image
“All I know: I could only encounter you, my oasis, coming out of a desert. Deserted myself. This is all right. My futureless and solitary self. When suddenly I hear the voice of the springs--Right away you made me want… — Hélène 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
