Here we no longer have secrets, we no longer have anything to hide. It is we who have become a secret, it is we who are hidden, even if everything we do takes place in broad daylight and in harsh light.
Lawrence denounced what seemed to him to run through all of French literature: the mania for the ‘dirty little secret’: characters and authors always have a little secret that feeds the mania for interpretation. There always has to be something that recalls another, that makes us think of something else. The big secret comes when one no longer has anything to hide and no one then can grasp it.
On all sides the secret, and nothing to tell.
Ever since the invention of the ‘signifier’, things have not been fixed. Language, instead of being interpreted, has been interpreting us and interpreting itself.
Significance and interpretation are the two diseases of the earth, the pair of the despot and the priest. The signifier is always the little secret that has never stopped revolving around the mummy-daddy. (Gilles Deleuze)

There is no revelation, there is almost no colour except red.
From a fake countryside docile footsteps and gestures up the munificent stream of the city.
She wanders lightly.
And then, the flat white of our sunset.

Mi hanno raccontato di una donna, a Parigi, una pronipote di Skrjabin, che ha speso tutta la vita a scrivere musica non destinata all’ascolto. In che cosa consista e come la componga non è chiaro; ma l’ho sempre invidiata. Invidio la sua follia, la sua non-pragmaticità. (Morton Feldman)