After the transplantation, soon after, some people told me you should write something about that, because it is a very special story, and it is very rare that a philosopher or a writer undergo the heart transplantation etcetera.1 But I didn’t find the way for that. I thought yes, that’s right, I should, but I don’t see how to do that. Because before that I never wrote something personal like that, you know. And so, I wait, I wait, and — then — I think that should be 91 and 97, which is I think six years after I started lymphome, is a cancer of the lymph, you know, which was due to the — precisely to the drug for the transplantation. That they use for a sickness problem. And at this time from the starting point, when the doctor discovered that it was this cancer, I thought maybe it was the opportunity to write. And I started to write, and I started to write about the lymphome. And about — at first I remember about the word lymph. So, I wrote about the word intruder as the way to name the part of the other which remains absolutely strange, foreign, I will say as the core of the otherness of the other.
And I started to write about that. But at the end of the second page, I thought suddenly that my heart is the intruder in me.2 I didn’t thought about that, absolutely not before. And suddenly I thought that, and I started to write about it. And it was like a kind of an opening of something which was closed until this time, and which was waiting and searching a way to come out.