(Mercado de San Miguel)
"If there is a self proper to woman, paradoxically it is her capacity to depropriate herself without self-interest: endless body, without "end," without principle "parts"; if she is a whole, it is a whole made up of parts that are wholes, not simple, partial objects but varied entirety, moving and boundless change, a cosmos where eros never stops traveling, vast astral space. She doesn’t revolve around a sun that is more star than the stars.
That doesn’t mean that she is undifferentiated magma; it means that she doesn’t create a monarchy of her body or her desire. Her libido is cosmic, just as her unconscious is worldwide: her writing also can only go on and on, without ever inscribing or distinguishing contours, daring these dizzying passages in other, fleeting and passionate dwellings within him, within the hims and hers whom she inhabits just long enough to watch them, as close as possible to the unconscious from the moment they arise; to love them, as close as possible to instinctual drives, and then, further, all filled with these brief identifying hugs and kisses, she goes and goes on infinitely. She alone dares and wants to know from within where she, the one excluded, has never ceased to hear what-comes-before-language reverberating. She let’s the other tongue of a thousand tongues speak — the tongue, sound without barrier or death. She refuses life nothing. Her tongue doesn’t hold back, but holds forth, doesn’t keep in, but keeps on enabling. Where the wonder of several and turmoil is expressed, she does not protect herself against these unknown feminines; she surprises herself at seeing, being, pleasuring in her gift of changeability. I am spacious singing Flesh: onto which is grafted no one knows which I — which masculine or feminine, more or less human, but above all living, because changing, I.”
— Hélène Cixous, an excerpt from Sorties