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On the one hand, the literary object has no other substance than the reader's subjectivity; Raskolnikov's waiting is my waiting which I lend him. Without this impatience of the reader he would remain only a collection of signs. His hatred of the police magistrate who questions him is my hatred wh…

Thus, it is not true that one writes for oneself. That would be the worst blow. In projecting one's emotions on paper, one barely manages to give them a languid extension. The creative act is only an incomplete and abstract moment in the production of a work. If the author existed alone he would be…

If the prose-writer is too eager to fondle his words, the eidos of 'prose' is shattered and we fall into highfalutin nonsense.

[...] We are within language as within our body. We feel it spontaneously while going beyond it toward other ends [...]