we are lacking of sense, and the language of our life (with which we express ourself, and to which we attach the maximum importance) is untranslatable, a chaos of possibility, a research of relations and meanings with solutions of continuity. death makes an instantaneous montage of our life - that is, it chooses one's really significant moments ( not more modifiable by other possible, contrary or incoherent moments) and puts them in succession, making our never ending, unstable, and unsure present so linguistically not describable - a clear, stable, sure past that is so linguistically describable. only thanks to death, our life is used by us to express ourself.
little life - josephine foster
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