Perhaps this was very precisely what being an emigrant meant: to see a sword where the sculptor, in all good faith, had thought he was putting a torch....
For me it is the very place of exile, that is the place of the absence of place, the place of dispersal. In this sense, it concerns me, it fascinates me, it involves me, it questions me, as if the search for my own identity went via the appropriation of this depository where harassed functionaries baptized Americans by the boatload, as if it were inscribed somewhere in a life-story that might have been mine, formed part of a probable autobiography, a potential memory. What is to be found there is certainly not roots or traces, but the opposite: something without shape, at the limits of the sayable, that I might call a closing-off, a scission, or a break, and which for me is very intimately and confusedly linked to the actual fact of being a Jew.