In reading my work, you may have already eaten an entire fishing village and a boatful of suicidal aches. I used to stare at the ceiling a lot and it used to be my primary mode of creativity.

The past is dead, but Cixous is alive, and she resurrects only what she thinks of, what incites her, what comes to her mind. Through this persistent act of journeying, the grand gesticulations of the twentieth century come to be concentrated in the beloved, diaphanous figure of a woman: her mother.