Fordham University Press

Doubt is the acolyte of suspense—its gravedigger, its messenger

Time, like knowledge, is irreversible.

In the quest that commits a subject to interrogate their past, there are not necessarily accompanying revelations but displacements that can lift the weight of curses and the logic that perpetuates their violence. Sometimes when secrets are disarmed, their toxicity returns in force. Like us, they’re in becoming. Their process of transformation never stops, even in the frozen time of trauma. For even in the most naked anxiety dwells a possible metamorphosis.

To respect the intimate space of the other is to make an alliance with the night without wanting to put an end to it, to imagine that light isn’t the opposite of the dark but its most secret ally, and to recognize in the secret—acts, thoughts, emotions—the opposite of a threat, the very condition of relation.

The thing to do now is to turn away from these moments of intimacy with the self: Silence is replaced by noise, almost continuous chatter, the omnipresence of screens