Reading is ignorant. It begins with what it reads and in this way discovers the force of a beginning. It is receiving and hearing, not the power to decipher and analyze, to go beyond by developing or to go back before by laying bare: it does not comprehend (stictly speaking), it attends. A marvelous innocence. (Maurice Blanchot,The Infinite Converstation, trans. S. Hanson.)

In poetry we are no longer referred back to the world, neither to the world as shelter nor to the world as goals. In this language the world recedes and goals cease; the world falls silent; beings with their preoccupations, their projects, their activity are no longer ultimately what speaks. (Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature, trans. A. Smock.)

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