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119 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1987

Everything I have been able to think and feel has gone beyond the boundaries of prose.
We have not said too much—rather, too little—and that little bit too timidly and too late. And why? For banal reasons. Because of insecurity. Because of fear. Because of lack of hope. And, strange as the claim may be: because of hope as well. Deceitful hope, which produces the same results as paralyzing despair.
The prehuman may also have approached another member of its horde with hands raised to symbolize peaceful intentions before it could speak. Yet only with the help of language . . . did the humans of one horde seem to have dissociated themselves from another horde: the one who spoke differently was the other, was not human, was not subject to the murder taboo . . . Language which creates identity but which, at the same time, makes a decisive contribution to the dismantling of the inhibition about killing that member of the species who speaks differently.