"There is a souffrance de la destination (no, not a fate neurosis, although...) in which I have every right to recognize myself. I am suffering (but like everyone else, no? me, I know it) from a real pathology of destination: I am always addressing myself to someone else (no, to someone else still!), but to whom? I absolve myself by remarking that this is due, before me, to the power, of no matter what sign, the "first" trait, the "first" mark, to be remarked, precisely, to be repeated, and therefore divided, turned away from whatever singular destination, and this by virtue of its very possibility, its very address. It is its address that makes it into a post card that multiplies, to the point of a crowd, my addressee, female. And by the same token, of course my addressee, male. A normal pathology, of course, but for me this is the only meurtriere: one kills someone by addressing a letter to him that is not destined to him, and thereby declaring one's love or even one's hatred. And I kill you every moment, but I love you" (504).
Derrida, Between the Blinds, "Envois"
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