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…Of which the fictions— that lying-as-truth, according to the poet Aragon's for-mula-evoke the long shadows, the bare spaces, and the magical current which traverses them.

To write, to love. Both lead to disorders and to delights, both are experienced in the same defiance of knowledge reduced to despair, both come to terms with the most opaque realms of the mind where nothing is mastered.

Throughout, memories glisten, the determination to withstand disappointments or failures provokes love-cries with complex echoes. And these cries, as much as the desperate fever to keep death at a distance, as much as the despairing shame of being unable to hold onto life, inscribe the book's lines of force.

A language which insists on being uttered aloud because it exposes at every line the untranslatable nature of life. A violent or helpless language whose secrets must be wrested from it. A language which is inscribed in the ongoing structure of a whole and which does not deter it.

At the blind point where words encounter things, far from secondary interrogations, other interrogations appear —primordial ones. Erotic obsession, suffering, the line of fracture between two states of being, lucidity, bewilderment, a now impossible creation, the impossibility of writing, the sentiment of never more-this is the labyrinth in which language helplessly tries to beguile death.

But although not Edenic, her writing is at least redemptive. Life and literary invention accommodate themselves miraculously in the enthusiasm of a nascent inspiration: brief, intense moments of grace, of inexpressible joys; a door open onto infinity, even onto immortality.