Abstract
How is the tragic link between intimacy and history articulated ? When everything is in pieces and the image is lost, how can we rebuild ? How can we rebuild from the notion of failure, writing, crossing out, rewriting, crossing out again? How can we use the notion of stuttering to reconstruct a story ? Let what's been knocked about go forward all the same. If everything is writing, then every fragment belongs to the same story. What a draft can do, its ghost in the clean. Faced with an infinite number of possibilities, with puzzle pieces that can all fit together, how can we choose the direction of the arrow when we know nothing about the target ?
