And what language is (not what it means, not the form in which it says what it means), what language is in its being, is that softest of voices, that nearly imperceptible retreat, that weakness deep inside and surrounding every thing and every face – what bathes the belated effort of the origin and the dawn-like erosion of death in the same light, at once day and night.

Michel Foucault, ‘Neither One Nor The Other’ in Maurice Blanchot: The Thought From Outside.
(via a-witches-brew)

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