A text about my father which I wrote in 1970 … is enough to convince me that I do not want to start again now. It is not … the effect of an unending oscillation between an as-yet discovered language of sincerity and the subterfuges of a writing concerned exclusively with shoring up its own defences: it is bound up with the matter of writing and the written matter, with the task of writing as well with the task of remembering. […] I write because [my parents] left in me their indelible mark, whose trace is writing. Their memory is dead in writing; writing is the memory of their death and the assertion of my life.
(Uit: Georges Perec, W or the memory of childhood (orig. W ou le souvernir d’enfance , vert. David Bellos), London: Vintage, 1988, 41-2)