Those Who Do Not Learn How To

The Camera Introduces Us To Unconscious Optics As Does Psychoanalysis To Unconscious Impulses.

The True Picture Of The Past Flits By. The Past Can Be Seized Only As An Image Which Flashes Up At The Instant When It Can Be Recognized And Is Never Seen Again.

The Illiterate Of The Future Will Not Be The Man Who Cannot Read The Alphabet, But The One Who Cannot Take A Photograph.

Each Morning The Day Lies Like A Fresh Shirt On Our Bed; This Incomparably Fine, Incomparably Tightly Woven Tissue Of Pure Prediction Fits Us Perfectly. The Happiness Of The Next Twenty-four Hours Depends On Our Ability, On Waking, To Pick It Up.

Reminiscences, Even Extensive Ones, Do Not Always Amount To An Autobiography. For Autobiography Has To Do With Time, With Sequence And What Makes Up The Continuous Flow Of Life. Here, I Am Talking Of A Space, Of Moments And Discontinuities. For Even If Months And Years Appear Here, It Is In The Form They Have At The Moment Of Commemoration.