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Memory and nostalgia. Because words are not only social markers. They are the encapsulated memory of our primary experience as experienced through the merging relationship with the mother.

The cellular memory of that fervor of first emotions stolen from us by language in the name of logical proposition, but which stubbornly remains hidden in the bowels of words and the psyche. Is it not this warmth that the sentence itself yearns for, since without it it would be smooth, cold and icy? Is this not why it does not draw it out itself, in defiance of its logic, now disguised as a metaphor or metonymy? For therein lies the wonder and the trauma.

The wordless wonder of the world but also the crossroads of our labyrinths, our fears, our darknesses. There we return to “speak” our traumas, our truth, to achieve a unity of the known with our unknown selves. It is there that literature, poetry par excellence, with its divergent pacing, returns to that lost first language of the glow, of the insistence of things, to irrigate new words from its depths.

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