Wound me . . . I can only feed on my humiliated blood. Edmond Jabes More Quotes by Edmond Jabes More Quotes From Edmond Jabes In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night. Edmond Jabes color morning night What is not grasped has all the chances to become real. Edmond Jabes chance real By the light of our insistent truths we wander into death Edmond Jabes wander light The book is an unbearable totality. I write against a background of facets. Edmond Jabes unbearable writing book The hand opens to the word, opens to distance. Edmond Jabes distance hands
