'The writer is a phobic,' writes Julia Kristeva in Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, 'who succeeds in metamorphizing in order to keep from being frightened to death; instead he comes to life again in signs.' Without writing, then, does the writer curl in the corner -- the writer, without writing, trammelled by nightmares of wolves in trees -- or is there still that pregnant secret, like the Blanchotian child's vision of an 'absolutely empty' sky?
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