Last Supper in every poem

September 30, 2018

Tea and books

Each time there is writing. No writing opens a passage without this bodily violence. How otherwise does one explain the charge – others would say the investment – the libidinal, even narcissistic charge that everyone brings to his own texts? It is my body, this is my body. Every poem says, “This is my body,” and the rest: drink it, eat it, keep it in memory of me. There is a Last Supper in every poem, which says: “This is my body, here and now.” And you know what comes next: passions, crucifixions, executions. Others would also say resurrections.

Jacques Derrida,
Rams: Uninterrupted Dialogue–Between Two Infinities, the Poem
From: Sovereignties in Question: The Poetics of Paul Celan

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