Literature Is The Question Minus The Answer.

We Can Never Know, For The Good Reason That Writing Is The Destruction Of Every Voice, Every Origin. Writing Is That Neuter, That Composite, That Obliquity Into Which Our Subject Flees, The Black-and-white Where All Identity Is Lost, Beginning With The Very Identity Of The Body That Writes.

It Is As If The Photograph Always Carries Its Referent With Itself, Both Affected By The Same Amorous Or Funereal Immobility, At The Very Heart Of The Moving World: They Are Glued Together, Limb By Limb, Like The Condemned Man And The Corpse In Certain Tortures; Or Even Like Those Pairs Of Fish (sharks, I Think, According To Michelet) Which Navigate In Convoy, As Though United By An Eternal Coitus.

...language Is Never Innocent.

Usually The Amateur Is Defined As An Immature State Of The Artist: Someone Who Cannot — Or Will Not — Achieve The Mastery Of A Profession. But In The Field Of Photographic Practice, It Is The Amateur, On The Contrary, Who Is The Assumption Of The Professional: For It Is He Who Stands Closer To The (i)noeme(i) Of Photography.

When We Look At A Photograph Of Ourselves Or Of Others, We Are Really Looking At The Return Of The Dead.