My tongue is going to die. They say, and probably going about languages like civilizations, religions. My language is born as I write, because we write it, speak it. This requires the youth still incipient suppport of unfathomable age. Who speaks of decadence? The dying alone, silent, traitors, talkative, the powerless.
language arises from a failure: It can not suddenly be at the service of its references to name, to reflect. The French language is naturally subject to the signified: it must provide evidence, detailed accounts, setting rules, giving representation. But suddenly, rupture, and not generally break into a particular mouth, which became the birthplace of the revolution.
In France, the common language is dependent on things and power: it does not, it records. Must dissociate themselves from this joint normal to give birth - in that language mine - the jubilation a freedom that springs from the individual rupture. Then, a moment at least, everything turns from a mouth, and it is not the world that justifies the words, because words enlighten.
ago in this country an old complex of legitimation: everything must serve and is recognized all over the place, but what is a recognition that is established by defining? The French language's role is to anchor these limits, to naturalize by appointment. She is also the substance of power. It is itself mediating since, under the pretext that they can communicate, it freezes everyone and everything in its function as the most servile. My
language is dead in the cultural discourse. My tongue moves his own body, the turns, the next generation. My language is born in the dead language: it too hard skin that meant, she stirred up this verb defeated, and the meaning comes just as the breath of nudity ...
that language is not French in French: it makes the world its meaning, and this model any shape, because the flesh is made word for the bodies to be the future of the words ...
Bernard Christmas
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