Painting Can Feign Reality Without Having Seen

All Of A Sudden It Didn't Bother Me Not Being Modern.

...what I Enjoy In A Narrative Is Not Directly Its Content Or Even Its Structure, But Rather The Abrasions I Impose Upon The Fine Surface: I Read On, I Skip, I Look Up, I Dip In Again. Which Has Nothing To Do With The Deep Laceration The Text Of Bliss Inflicts Upon Language Itself, And Not Upon The Simple Temporality Of Its Reading.

Language Is A Skin: I Rub My Language Against The Other. It Is As If I Had Words Instead Of Fingers, Or Fingers At The Tip Of My Words. My Language Trembles With Desire.

Literature Is Like Phosphorus: It Shines With Its Maximum Brilliance And The Moment When It Attempts To Die.

For The Photograph's Immobility Is Somehow The Result Of A Perverse Confusion Between Two Concepts: The Real And The Live: By Attesting That The Object Has Been Real, The Photograph Surreptitiously Induces Belief That It Is Alive, Because Of That Delusion Which Makes Us Attribute To Reality An Absolute Superior, Somehow Eternal Value; But By Shifting This Reality To The Past ("this-has-been"), The Photograph Suggests That It Is Already Dead.