We Don't Forget, But Something Vacant Settles

The Art Of Living Has No History: It Does Not Evolve: The Pleasure Which Vanishes Vanishes For Good, There Is No Substitute For It. Other Pleasures Come, Which Replace Nothing. No Progress In Pleasures, Nothing But Mutations.

I Am Interested In Language Because It Wounds Or Seduces Me.

The Ventoux Is A God Of Evil, To Which Sacrifices Must Be Made. It Never Forgives Weakness And Extracts An Unfair Tribute Of Suffering.

New York... Is A City Of Geometric Heights, A Petrified Desert Of Grids And Lattices, An Inferno Of Greenish Abstraction Under A Flat Sky, A Real Metropolis From Which Man Is Absent By His Very Accumulation.

I Passed Beyond The Unreality Of The Thing Represented, I Entered Crazily Into The Spectacle, Into The Image, Taking Into My Arms What Is Dead, What Is Going To Die.