The Lover's Fatal Identity Is Precisely This:

Pleasure Is Continually Disappointed, Reduced, Deflated, In Favor Of Strong, Noble Values: Truth, Death, Progress, Struggle, Joy, Etc. Its Victorious Rival Is Desire: We Are Always Being Told About Desire, Never About Pleasure.

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.

As Spectator I Wanted To Explore Photography Not As A Question (a Theme) But As A Wound.

What Love Lays Bare In Me Is Energy.

Literature Can No Longer Be Either Mimesis Or Mathesis But Merely Semiosis, The Adventure Of What Is Impossible To Language, In A Word: Text (it Is Wrong To Say That The Notion Of 'text' Repeats The Notion Of 'literature': Literature Represents A Finite World, The Text Figures The Infinite Of Language).