Being is not a repose but a question up from its very heart. But can you have a question without some sense of what its solution needs to be like, surely the doubt is already the negative outline of the answer, dim but certain? The question is the condition of the answer. What makes it a question is the sense of having lost its home; that it knows what home was but also that there can be no return to a home; the past must become the future and the future the recovered past. The breaking up of home is its very birth and it carries the traces of it, the fragments, cursed and cherished, in its blood. It has to keep looking, piling up errors on errors, and led by a kind of hope or stubborn faith that if it will settle for nothing short of home, and studiously avoid its simulacra, false promises, its wish to be lied to again and again, only then the way still opens. Through exile to homeland, and from homeland to exile again; they inhabit each other, in myth and in politics, in images and in power, storming vortices of criteria as brutal as barbed-wire and bloody as any severed umbilicus. Both matrix and fatherland, oblique allusions that turn their dual faces towards you, offering milk, demanding blood.