POOLOFEXCERPTS

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yes indeed i wanna be the echo of your text. Here? But I realized it was just an echo: the text, on its way to something else: So, this is, what remains, haunting and repeating itself as its very own echo that is an echo of itself that is an echo as much as it can never achieve a form of identity as it can never - 'Talk!' 'Talk!' - dress itself in its very own words. and my story would put itself at their service. I think what other think exiling itself to the other I sample, steal, paraphrase and repeat without any individual coherency I realize that I lose out on a lot of details, but I do not miss them.
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and the place echoed " word"
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The whole of the spoken language surrounding the child snaps him up like a whirlwind, tempts him by its internal articulations, and brings him almost up to the moment when all this noise begins to mean something. Only language as a whole enables one to understand how language draws the child to himself and how he comes to enter that domain whose doors, it is believed, open only from within.
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a space that moves for instance, like rotating balls
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far exceeding the piety of our memories and consciences
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I sample, steal, paraphrase and repeat to fill space? some might find this coercive and blanch at the barefaced self-reflexivity of the whole thing. Year after year, these errors and oddities build into a simulacrum of nuance, flavor and personal technique. But they are as unauthentic as everything else about my life.
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It "echoed," so to speak, in the silence, this idea which had gone.
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You told me once upon a time that you will ask the impossible of me. I play the secret against the weak witnesses, the particular witnesses, even if there is a crowd of them, because there is a crowd. This is the condition for witnessing - or for voyeurism - for the absolute nonsecret, the end of the private life that I reject; but while waiting, the private (eye) has to be thrown in.
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sometimes a fellow acrobat swarmed up the ladder to him, and then both sat on the trapeze, leaning left and right against the supporting ropes, and chatted
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Talk!' and my story would put itself at their service.
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Alas, in vain, beloved boy!' and the place echoed every word, and when he said 'Goodbye!' Echo also said 'Goodbye!'
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Perhaps I am more interested in observing the vehicles of distribution, and understanding how they influence the messages transmitted, more than receiving the messages themselves. they may keep their meaning for themselves while we become the vehicles of their distribution. The text, on its way to something else.
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I realize that I lose out on a lot of details, but I do not miss the moment when all this noise begins to mean something.
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Perhaps I am more interested in observing the vehicles of distribution, and understanding how they influence the messages transmitted, more than receiving the messages themselves. they may keep their meaning for themselves while we become the vehicles of their distribution
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he who cannot learn how to speak first himself.She had no other trick of speech than he has now. All the more reason not to talk. All the more reasons for a language of gestures only. Style, gesture, manner - and lead to mimicry, as unauthentic as everything else about my life.
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and each Text, as opposed to a Work, will get me a little further
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making the reader notice that in the machine of the text he has been on his way to something else
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but all that counts might be the manner in which it welcomes us within language.
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This substitution no longer knows a place of its own
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With the text that we've written, we have attempted to avoid it but it is still there.
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As everything has become a matter of playing, there is only a movement, a transformation.
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I am inhabited by my readings, I might leave them, they might leave me. The page becomes a room inhabited by our play. Like the weaver, the writer works on the wrong side of his material.

He has to do only with language, and it is thus that he suddenly finds himself surrounded by meaning.
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There are only relations of movement and rest
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She has no other trick of speech than she has now, she works on the wrong side of his material suddenly finds herself surrounded by meaning in chaotic maps and rendered language in its mere capacity to communicate so that we would literally ignore the blind spots, The majority of one`s consciousness as nothing, happened so recently, that not everyone seems to have noticed it
25
yes indeed i wanna be the echo of your text. Here? But I realized it was just an echo: the text, on its way to something else: So, this is, what remains, haunting and repeating itself as its very own echo that is an echo of itself that is an echo as much as it can never achieve a form of identity as it can never - 'Talk!' 'Talk!' - dress itself in its very own words. and my story would put itself at their service. I think what other think exiling itself to the other I sample, steal, paraphrase and repeat without any individual coherency I realize that I lose out on a lot of details, but I do not miss them.
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Being half flesh half magic is thus the happiness of reading
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Like the weaver, the writer works on the wrong side of his material. He has to do only with language, and it is thus that he suddenly finds himself surrounded by meaning. The fantasy of the text is that of the perfect conversation. In this ideal state the text is always on its way to something else. I am inhabited by my readings. The whole of the spoken language surrounding snaps like a whirlwind, tempts by its internal articulations, and pushes almost up to the moment when all this noise begins to mean something. The page becomes a room whose doors, it is believed, open only from within..
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As if we were afraid to conceive of the Other in the time of our own thought. As everything has become a matter of playing.
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One acts out theater, for oneself and for others, and actually one gathers together to be someone other than who one is. "Talk," and my story would put itself at their service. I sample, steal, paraphrase and repeat to fill space. But my gestures are as unauthentic as everything else about my life. i value more collective eclecticism than any individual coherency. I realize that I lose out on a lot of details, but I do not miss them. Perhaps I am more interested in observing the vehicles of distribution, and understanding how they influence the messages transmitted, more than receiving the messages themselves.
30
She has no other trick of speech than she has now. it is about non-knowledge. not in mapping, so that we would literally see the blind spots - waiting to be cleared. The measure of forgetting and ruin far exceeds the piety of our memories and consciences.
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The language beyond language takes place beyond any given language. I wonder whether Echo contains this repetative movement, the throwing of language against its own wall searching the hollow wall which contains a passage
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and as everything has become a matter of playing, there is only a movement, a transformation the ideal state where the text is always on its way to something else
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and rendered language in its mere capacity to communicate
  
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It is still there, the thought, like an echo, as though it were at the other end of this space, filled by our play, samples, paraphrases that sends back to us the "wave of a presence". Thus it "echoed," so to speak, in the silence, this idea which had gone, but which is now inside, rendered peculiarly majestic, imperial, by its resonance.
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as it can never achieve a form of identity
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How can something enter the realm of playing?
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