Bérénice

Everything is held back and slowed down; in a word, the field of desire opens up before us in all the devastating virulence of its theater. Renunciations here carry more weight than actions, blood, or matings. Paralytic theater. Unique object: I do not believe there exists in western dramaturgy of all time anything more static and nerve-wracking. And yet, one weeps. The word becomes concentric, like drug fumes; the dialogues are in reality feverish monologues. "Bérénice" is a text that says nothing, and this is its offering, its—deep down—madness, its "contemporary-art."