None of it seemed very real, but I suppose that’s the trouble with history. It’s the one thing we have to make up for ourselves.
None of it seemed very real, but I suppose that’s the trouble with history. It’s the one thing we have to make up for ourselves.
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A deviser of territories, languages, works, the deject never stops demarcating his universe whose fluid confines — for they are constituted of a non-object, the abject — constantly question his solidity and impel him to start afresh. A tireless builder, the deject is in short a stray. He is on a journey, during the night, the end of which keeps receding. He has a sense of the danger, of the loss that the pseudo-object attracting him represents for him, but he cannot help taking the risk at the very moment he sets himself apart. And the more he strays, the more he is saved.
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Julia Kristeva | Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection