dans la solitude des champs de coton

Everyone can talk about his memories, invent stories, state opinions in his languages; sometimes he even acquires a beautiful style, which gives him adequate means and makes him an appreciated writer. But when it is a matter of digging under the stories, cracking open the opinions, and reaching regions without memories, when the self must be destroyed, it is certainly not enough to be a “great” writer, and the means must remain forever inadequate. Style becomes nonstyle, and one’s language lets an unknown foreign language escape from it, so that one can reach the limits of language itself and become something other than a writer, conquering fragmented visions that pass through the words of a poet, the colors of a painter, or the sounds of a musician.

Gilles Deleuze, "He Stuttured."