A Text (n.) is a heterogeneous differential and open field of forces.
Text (n.) is context as the entire 'real-history-of-the-world'.
The Text (n.) has no stable identity, no stable origin and no stable end; each reading of it is a preface to the next.
The Text (n.) can remain open, proffered and indecipherable, even without our knowing that it is indecipherable.
A Text (n.) transgresses its own laws at the moment that cannot be unravelled, and that moment is where it can be deconstructed.
A Text (n.) asks to be deciphered, not merely read, wherever it looks super-smooth or super-clumsy; there the reader should fix his gaze.
A Text (n.) is a play of presence and absence, a place of the effaced trace, whether literary, psychic or anthropological.
A Text (n.) always has several epochs, and reading must resign itself to that.
A Text (n.) has no strict author: there is not, strictly speaking, a text whose author or subject is Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
The Text (n.) cannot be conceived in an originary or modified form of presence.
The Text (n.) lords over the music as the master over the servant.
The Text (n.) works as a writing machine, and the author's own intention is only one piece of its mechanism.
The Text (n.) has no blank margin beyond it: past the philosophical text lies only another text, a weave of forces without a present center.
A Text (n.) is not surrounded by its limit but traversed by it, marked in its interior by the furrow of its margin.
A Text (n.) is the fabric in which secondary threads act back on the primary ones, so that the beginning can no longer be grasped.
A Text (n.) is not only what is written: life itself always already was one, and nothing can be said to be not a text.
A Text (n.) is never truly made up of signs or signifiers; its traces owe their life to the hymen's propagation.