Who Speaks Is Not Who Writes, And

Death Of The Father Would Deprive Literature Of Many Of Its Pleasures. If There Is No Longer A Father, Why Tell Stories? Doesn't Every Narrative Lead Back To Oedipus? Isn't Storytelling Always A Way Of Searching For One's Origin, Speaking One's Conflicts With The Law, Entering Into The Dialectic Of Tenderness And Hatred?

In An Initial Period, Photography, In Order To Surprise, Photographs The Notable; But Soon, By A Familiar Reversal, It Decrees Notable Whatever It Photographs. The 'anything Whatever' Then Becomes The Sophisticated Acme Of Value.

It Must Always Be Considered As Though Spoken By A Character In A Novel

One Day, Quite Some Time Ago, I Happened On A Photograph Of Napoleon’s Youngest Brother, Jerome, Taken In 1852. And I Realized Then, With An Amazement I Have Not Been Able To Lessen Since: ‘i Am Looking At Eyes That Looked At The Emperor.’ Sometimes I Would Mention This Amazement, But Since No One Seemed To Share It, Nor Even To Understand It (life Consists Of These Little Touches Of Solitude), I Forgot About It.

I Encounter Millions Of Bodies In My Life; Of These Millions, I May Desire Some Hundreds; But Of These Hundreds, I Love Only One.