Foucault is never exactly where we expect him. The power of his language undermines and compromises the constancy of his thought and his being by linking them to other thoughts, other beings. And despite numerous rapports with writers, painters, musicians, and philosophers, concretized in texts, interviews, demonstrations, etc., the virtual horizon of his encounters seems endless. Since his death, his oeuvre has continued to be unfolded by unpublished connections, sometimes untimely, which often are born and exist only at the moment of their expression. Thus Foucault becomes a sort of cross-roads constantly traversed by thinkers and artists, a perpetually moving nerve center that opens aesthetic and intellectual experiences into countless interpretations. This is what was experienced at Cerisy in June 2001. Despite this, it is easy to detect a common denominator in the heterogeneity of the papers given, a common thread in the disparity of the encounters that have been staged with varying degrees of success. In fact, the speakers have attempted to present the principles of Foucault's thought, as though they had been directed to find the origin of his knowledge. Paradoxically, this urge is perhaps involuntary, for don't the peripheral objects of the conference (literature and the arts) naturally take his thought back to its origins? Nonetheless, one thing is certain: the sobriety with which
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