My love of images - mesquite flowering, the wind, Ehécatl, whispering its secret knowledge - and words, my passion for the daily struggle to render them concrete in the world and on paper, to render them flesh, keeps me alive.
― Anzaldúa, Borderlands / La Frontera
By means of the breach of philosophical identity, a breach that amounts to addressing the truth to itself in an envelope, to hearing itself speak without opening its mouth or showing its teeth, the bloodiness of a disseminated writing comes to separate the lips, to violate the embouchure of philosophy, putting its tongue into movement, finally bringing it into contact with some other code, of an entirely other kind. A necessarily unique event, nonreproducible, hence illegible as such and, when it happens, inaudible in the conch, between earth and sea, without signature.
― Derrida, “Tympan”