Physically, The Ventoux Is Dreadful. Bald, It's

The Photographer, Like An Acrobat, Must Defy The Laws Of Probability Or Even Of Possibility; At The Limit, He Must Defy Those Of The Interesting: The Photograph Becomes Surprising When We Do Not Know Why It Has Been Taken.

We Don't Forget, But Something Vacant Settles In Us.

For Me The Noise Of Time Is Not Sad: I Love Bells, Clocks, Watches — And I Recall That At First Photographic Implements Were Related To Techniques Of Cabinetmaking And The Machinery Of Precision: Cameras, In Short, Were Clocks For Seeing, And Perhaps In Me Someone Very Old Still Hears In The Photographic Mechanism The Living Sound Of The Wood.

The Unary Photograph Has Every Reason To Be Banal, 'unity' Of Composition Being The First Rule Of Vulgar (and Notably, Of Academic) Rhetoric: 'the Subject,' Says One Handbook For Amateur Photographers, 'must Be Simple, Free Of Useless Accessories; This Is Called The Search For Unity.

Who Speaks Is Not Who Writes, And Who Writes Is Not Who Is.