Writing (n.) is, in writing a love letter, to begin without knowing what you mean to say and to finish without knowing what you have written.
Writing (n.) comes in two kinds: the good is the divine inscription in the heart, the perverse is technique, exiled in the body.
Writing (n.) is nothing but the representation of speech; it is bizarre that one gives more care to the determining of the image than to the object.
Writing (n.) is condemned as the destruction of presence and the disease of speech, yet rehabilitated as the promise of reappropriating what speech lost.
Writing (n.) is the only way of keeping or recapturing speech, since speech denies itself as it gives itself.
Writing (n.) is the very process of the dispersal of peoples unified as bodies, and the beginning of their enslavement.
Writing (n.) is the origin of inequality: it is the moment the general will, which cannot err by itself, gives way to judgment.
Writing (n.) seems to fix language, yet it is what alters it: it changes not the words but the spirit of language.
Writing (n.) is always atonal: the place of the speaking subject is taken by another, and the force of tone is lost in the concept.
Writing (n.) is nothing but a mediated representation of thought: speech represents thought, and writing represents speech in the same way.
Writing (n.) makes a law look fanciful: committed to writing, the system of Lycurgus would seem more chimerical than the Platonic one.
Writing (n.) is no servant of speech: it springs from needs of its own, on a timetable independent of the people who use it.