Love's memories, love recalling itself in letters lost and found
over an interval of forty years: Cixous's writer-narrator advances
here far into a labyrinth of passions long ago delivered and yet
still arriving through the mail, through letters and literature, in
other words, the poetry of the post. As for the lovers' returning
scenes, they have their addresses in Paris (rue Olivier de Serres,
Avenue de Choisy, street names that endlessly feed love's
unconscious language) and in New York, but also in a lost oasis of
the Egyptian desert during the Napoleonic wars, in Athens and along
the shores of a great lake centuries ago in the country of myth.
The lovers are poets or soldiers, philosophers or students madly in
love with poetry and poets. They are as well mermaids or panthers.
Panthers? Yes, for it is the passion of the animal that drives all
these lovers to bare themselves, and sometimes their claws, before
the beloved. Misunderstandings are often, even inevitably the
result. Seconded and witnessed by her passionate, truth-telling
cats, Cixous's narrator-writer returns unerringly to moments of
errancy inflicted on address and language, those errors and faults
when love, perhaps, is listening only to itself, without subject or
object, lover or beloved, just love itself, l'amour meme, l'amour
m'aime, love loving me, in the letter box of memory.
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