Idiomatic: property that one cannot appropriate; it signs you without belonging to you; it only appears to the other and it never comes back to you except in flashes of madness that bring together life and death, that bring you together dead and alive at the same time. You dream, it’s unavoidable, about the invention of a language or a song that would be yours, not the attributes of a ‘self’, rather the accentuated paraph, that is, the musical signature, of your most unreadable history. I’m not talking about a style but an intersection of singularities, habitat, voices, graphims, that moves with you and your body never leaves.

In my memory, what I write resembles a dotted line drawing that would be circling around a book to be written in which I call for myself the ‘old new language’, the most archaic and the most novel, therefore unheard-of, unreadable at present. This book would be something completely other from the path that it nevertheless still resembles. In any case, an interminable anamnesis whose form is being sought: not only my history, but culture, languages, families … the accumulation of dreams, projects, or notes no doubt weighs on what is written in the present.

One day, some piece of the book may fall out like a stone that keeps the memory of the hallucinatory architecture to which it might have belonged. The stone still resonates and vibrates, it emits a painful and indecipherable bliss, one no longer knows whose and for whom …

Jacques Derrida, from an interview