...a literature ordered according to the infinite task of extracting from the depths of oneself, in between the words, a truth which the very form of the confession holds out like a shimmering mirage (Michel Foucault)
K: Yes, rage. The loneliness is just a lie. It lies to me, it lies next to me. Like Kundera wrote:
“On the surface, an intelligible lie; underneath, the unintelligible truth.”
