“What remains, in fact? What else is there still right in front of us but the grass which grows and the mountains which erode, bodies which become heavy and faces which become emaciated, life which fecundates, or becomes exhausted, or rather which, while fecundating, is already starting to become exhausted? And vague expectations that crystallize into feverish passion, or else meetings that become less frequent. Or amorous complicities which, without being confessed, turn into relations of power? Or heroic revolutions which (without our being able to locate when) mutate into the privileges of the Party? Or else the wounds of yesterday which are displaced, buried and condensed, and then transcribe themselves into encrypted representation of dreams - and works which ripen in silence?”