There Is No Aphrodisiac Like Innocence.

It Is The Task Of Radical Thought, Since The World Is Given To Us Unintelligibly, To Make It More Unintelligible, More Enigmatic, More Fabulous.

Art Is No Longer Anything More Than A Kind Of Meta-language For Banality.

Neither Dead Nor Alive, The Hostage Is Suspended By An Incalculable Outcome. It Is Not His Destiny That Awaits For Him, Nor His Own Death, But Anonymous Chance, Which Can Only Seem To Him Something Absolutely Arbitrary. He Is In A State Of Radical Emergency, Of Virtual Extermination.

At The Heart Of Pornography Is Sexuality Haunted By Its Own Disappearance.

Art Does Not Die Because There Is No More Art. It Dies Because There Is Too Much.