...language Is Never Innocent.

To Hide A Passion Totally (or Even To Hide, More Simply, Its Excess) Is Inconceivable: Not Because The Human Subject Is Too Weak, But Because Passion Is In Essence Made To Be Seen: The Hiding Must Be Seen: I Want You To Know That I Am Hiding Something From You, That Is The Active Paradox I Must Resolve: At One And The Same Time It Must Be Known And Not Known: I Want You To Know That I Don't Want To Show My Feelings: That Is The Message I Address To The Other.

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.

I Want A History Of Looking. For The Photograph Is The Advent Of Myself As Other: A Cunning Dissociation Of Consciousness From Identity. Even Odder: It Was Before Photography That Men Had The Most To Say About The Vision Of The Double. Heautoscopy Was Compared With An Hallucinosis; For Centuries This Was A Great Mythic Theme.

All Official Institutions Of Language Are Repeating Machines: School, Sports, Advertising, Popular Songs, News, All Continually Repeat The Same Structure, The Same Meaning, Often The Same Words: The Stereotype Is A Political Fact, The Major Figure Of Ideology.

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.