I’ve spent the last few days with Helene Cixous. Well, not literally. Rather, I’ve spent it with her writing, revising an essay on The Day I Wasn’t There, a haunting novella about life, loss and longing.

I adore Cixous. I fell in love with her “Laugh of the Medusa” the very first time I read it. Nobody else in my class was as entranced as I was. And my love affair has only continued. I love the way she writes. I love how she thinks with words through words about words. I love how she plays with language with punctuation with meaning. When I read her, I am in bliss. ecstasy. jouissance.

I’m like that about most ‘French’ theory, but Cixous definitely holds a special place. Her work is…well, there’s no word that can really capture it….

“Do you see theory as if it’s poetry?” my husband asked me earlier tonight, “Because you talk about it as if it’s poetry.”

“What else could Cixous possibly be?” I say.



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