Is it a powerful and implacable rebellion against linear or discursive thought? What does it seek, except to push tradition and heritage to the bottom of the abyss? Is it the rejection of what seems stable, well-founded, precise, necessary and inevitable? Finally, it is the victory of words, Paritus had said, words that find meaning in the heart. And God is always there. He questions when He is questioned. His very silence questions. How should He be answered? Does the mystic stop being a mystic, or simply stop being, when He says no to him? Me, I tell children about the old age that awaits them. I remind old people of their receding past. Is it my destiny? It’s my passion, I admit it. Even when I don’t speak, my silence is still haunted by speech. God himself needed to express Himself in order to undertake His oeuvre, which, afterward, would become that of men. Facing the recesses of time and the traps of memory, entangled in pain, hope or speech, he sometimes falters, floats, trembles.
