Lourdes

“I gaze at his face night and day I hold his face in he grip of my eyes I double each breath of his with one of mine and I work relentlessly I secrete a thread with my nerves each millimetre of this thread wears me down to the heart but I move forward and I display a unique capacity for work stitch after stitch I sew and create the being who cannot not be, this creation is infinite but always the blow comes where it is not anticipated I believe him to be strong and suddenly
He tears himself.
And my body is empty right down to the heart.”
― Hélène Cixous, Tomb(e)

“This is what I desired: to be the immaterial production of the peace of his body, to add myself to his death, to be the rippling transparent sheet which envelops him and in the very time of weaving to dwell in the most secret part of the chest and mingled with the oldest of his desires to linger to efface myself on the endless edge of his Most Near body. To be dreamt of him as I dreamt him.”
― Hélène Cixous, Tomb(e)

“If I detested him who would I be? I am not without Him, without Him I am not myself, all this is obscure but I want everything, I want the cut and what is cut plus the place of the cutting and its edges, I likewise want the empty notebook, the full notebook and the exergue, the notes of the textamant and the discordance of all the questions.”
― Hélène Cixous, Tomb(e)

“when Love produces us by playing our bodies. There is Him and Me and beyond there is Him-Us and Us-Me and beyond stands Love which envelops us and weaves us and plays Him, Me, Us and all that we risk against death and which takes aim by playing our bodies which, played, produce Love, to straddle death”
― Hélène Cixous, Tomb(e)