Photography Has A Meaning Only If It

It Was The Hour In Which Objects Lose The Consistency Of Shadow That Accompanies Them During The Night And Gradually Reacquire Colors, But Seem To Cross Meanwhile An Uncertain Limbo, Faintly Touched, Just Breathed On By Light; The Hour In Which One Is Least Certain Of The World's Existence.

…we Can Not Love Or Think Except In Fragments Of Time Each Of Which Goes Along Its Own Trajectory And Immediately Disappears.

The Unconscious Is The Ocean Of The Unsayable, Of What Has Been Expelled From The Land Of Language, Removed As A Result Of Ancient Prohibitions.

The Word Connects The Visible Trace With The Invisible Thing, The Absent Thing, The Thing That Is Desired Or Feared, Like A Frail Emergency Bridge Flung Over An Abyss.

Who Are We, Who Is Each One Of Us, If Not A Combination Of Experiences, Information, Books We Have Read, Things Imagined? Each Life Is An Encyclopedia, A Library, An Inventory Of Objects, A Series Of Styles, And Everything Can Be Constantly Shuffled And Reordered In Every Way Conceivable.