164
" Where is the ebullient, infinite woman who, immersed as she was in her naivete, kept in the dark about herself, led into self-disdain by the great arm of parental-conjugal phallocentrism, hasn't been ashamed of her strength? Who, surprised and horrified by the fantastic tumult of her drives (for she was made to believe that a well-adjusted normal woman has a ... divine composure), hasn't accused herself of being a monster? Who, feeling a funny desire stirring inside her (to sing, to write, to dare to speak, in short, to bring out something new), hasn't thought she was sick? Well, her shameful sickness is that she resists death, that she makes trouble. "
― Hélène Cixous , The Laugh of the Medusa
165
" But, regardless of gender, the writer must write about “love…love which is our fate, [a] twisted thing, tortuous, delicate, eager, insatiable, the best, and worst thing, the junction point between everything and nothing, the oxymoronic knot of all existence, love which makes cattle meat of us "
― Hélène Cixous
166
" Skaitome tam, kad iš naujo patirtume laimę atrasti ten išminčių ir draugą - knygą išminčių arba knygą beprotį (nes tik tokia yra tikra knyga - išminčius ir beprotis, išmintis būti bepročiu ir išminties beprotybė). Skaitome nebijodami, kad prarasime puslapis po puslapio augantį džiaugsmą, nes jau seniai supratome, kad taip sunaikindamas mylimą knygą jos neprarasi: vos ją perskaitę, užmirštame, skaitome ir užmirštame, skaitome tam, kad užmirštume, dukart užmirštume, užmirštume visiškai saugiai, nes ten, knygoje, esame užkerėti keleiviai, ir galiausiai užmiršta knyga spindulingai atsitraukia, vėl atgula į kapą tarsi brangi mylimoji, pasiruošusi grįžti vos išgirdusi savo vardą, kad pagelbėtų tuomet, kai reikia. "
― Hélène Cixous , Auksas. Mano tėvo laiškai
173
" What the leave left me on deposit after the grace period expired: a crazy sad elation, as sad as it was exciting. A wretched happiness, yet another affect I've never suspected I could feel, a tearful happiness, lightened, raked by claws, to discover that death lets pass, that it may sheathe its claws, admit exceptions. As if one could do everything one imagines doing, all of us living dead dying life death and other beings subject to laws so harsh but open to interpretation, natural phenomena. An extra-mortal joy that doesn't take its eyes off death. No denials. I don't deny the sentence, its execution, its terrible consequences, the solitude, the weakening, the ruination of beauties the carnage of skies, global chlorosis, anxiety, that demolish us, the butchery of living moments, the pulling out by the roots of the hearts of things and beings. But that day it was clear to me we had found: the answer. This was the Granting of Leave. It will suffice. "
― Hélène Cixous , Hyperdream
177
" Noli me tangere, touch me not, do not try to touch me, says Jesus to Mary Magdalene, it is the third day of his death, don't touch me for I am no longer and I am not yet, I am no longer living, I have not yet 'ascended to my father', I am dead, still dead, don't go and touch death: this is impossible. I have been stricken with intangibility. Yet there he is. Only with her hands does she not touch him. With her eyes she touches and he is touched. What if she couldn't see him? She would touch him with her ears, with her voice, with silence. There are so many ways of touching without touching, without touching be touched, to be in the continuity of the real. "
― Hélène Cixous , Poetry in Painting: Writings on Contemporary Arts and Aesthetics