What I Claim Is To Live To

I Cannot Classify The Other, For The Other Is, Precisely, Unique, The Singular Image Which Has Miraculously Come To Correspond To The Speciality Of My Desire. The Other Is The Figure Of My Truth, And Cannot Be Imprisoned In Any Stereotype (which Is The Truth Of Others).

This Endured Absence Is Nothing More Or Less Than Forgetfulness. I Am, Intermittently, Unfaithful. This Is The Condition Of My Survival.

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.

Physically, The Ventoux Is Dreadful. Bald, It's The Spirit Of Dry: Its Climate (it Is Much More An Essence Of Climate Than A Geographic Place) Makes It A Damned Terrain, A Testing Place For Heroes, Something Like A Higher Hell.

The Incapacity To Name Is A Good Symptom Of Disturbance.