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The gods bring disaster down on mortals so that they will tell about it; but mortals tell about it to stop the catastrophe ever actually happening, so that its fulfillment is evaded in words that are far removed from it, where they will finally meet their end, even if they wish to remain silent. The point where speech begins is marked by immeasurable suffering, the clamorous gift of the gods: but for speech, or rather in speech, the frontier of death opens up an infinite space. The prospect of death makes speech move hastily onward, but also begins over again, tells about itself, discovers the story in the story and the possibility that no end may ever come to this envelopment. On the line dividing us from death, language reflects itself, encountering a mirror there; and if language wishes to stop the death that calls a halt to speech, it has only one single power by which it can do so: by letting its own image arise within itself, in a game of mirrors that has no bounds.
-- Michel Foucault
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