and he stared at her and admitted that silence is impossible , even the death of language is discourse and that destiny can never be conjugated but in the perfect , it is a sealed time and a literature unmolested by the echoes of the spoken , the rarefied words , ghost-wor ( l ) ds in the interior of the word , silence and the quill cutting into the white and drawing black blood and the hunger for the word , the cannibalism of the logos and the world is not unexplained so long as one recites it , so long as one can recite it , especially in a monotone , and writing is a duration of dead signs who only matter insofar as they are transported away , invisible , and literature is the cadaver of language and style is the authors prison , his solitude .