la vache qui dit

ici. It grows on you.

Oh sure, and happy belated birthday, to me. Off to examine (for I want to get a better historical sense of Blanchot's peculiar Nationalism. And it is peculiar...)

Still, without signifying all that much, High hopes, because the other one, the later one, sometimes it made me feel like this

if, granted, also this

Thomas sat down and looked at the sea.

It is certainly satisfying (too satisfying) to think that, solely because something like these words, 'he – the sea', with the exigency that results from them and whence also they result, are written, somewhere there is inscribed the possibility of a radical transformation, even if only for a single person, that is to say his suppression as a personal existence. The possibility: no more. (Le pas au-delà, 8)

and

Literature for Blanchot is thus neither a retreat from the real nor a bulwark against it. It is rather the only remaining mode of subjectivity in language open to him in the face of what the real has become...(Holland, 12)

hum

A blog also, looks interesting.