inf(l)ections
Like all ghosts
Writing is not an independent order of signification; it is weakened speech, something not completely dead: a living dead, a reprieved corpse, a deferred life, a semblance of breath. The phantom, the phantasm, the simulacrum of a living discourse is not inanimate; it is not insignificant, it simply signifies little and always the same thing. This signifier of little, this discourse that doesn't amount to much, is like all ghosts: errant. It rolls this way and that like someone who has lost his way, who doesn't know where he is going, having strayed from the correct path, the right direction, the rule of rectitude, the norm: but also like someone who has lost his rights, an outlaw, a pervert, a bad seed, a vagrant, an adventurer, a bum. Wandering in the streets, he doesn't even know who he is, what his identity--if he has one--might be, what his name is, what his father's name is. He repeats the same thing every time he is questioned on the street corner, but he can no longer repeat his origin.
