The Incapacity To Name Is

The Photographer, Like An Acrobat, Must Defy The Laws Of Probability Or Even Of Possibility; At The Limit, He Must Defy Those Of The Interesting: The Photograph Becomes Surprising When We Do Not Know Why It Has Been Taken.

Am I In Love? --yes, Since I Am Waiting. The Other One Never Waits. Sometimes I Want To Play The Part Of The One Who Doesn't Wait; I Try To Busy Myself Elsewhere, To Arrive Late; But I Always Lose At This Game. Whatever I Do, I Find Myself There, With Nothing To Do, Punctual, Even Ahead Of Time. The Lover's Fatal Identity Is Precisely This: I Am The One Who Waits.

L'amoureux Qui N'oublie Pas Quelquefois Meurt Par Exce' S, Fatigue Et Tension De Me Moire (tel Werther). The Lover Who Does Not Forget Sometimes Dies From Excess, Fatigue, And The Strain Of Memory (like Werther).

The Petit-bourgeois Is A Man Unable To Imagine The Other. If He Comes Face To Face With Him, He Blinds Himself, Ignores And Denies Him, Or Else Transforms Him Into Himself.

We Can Never Know, For The Good Reason That Writing Is The Destruction Of Every Voice, Every Origin. Writing Is That Neuter, That Composite, That Obliquity Into Which Our Subject Flees, The Black-and-white Where All Identity Is Lost, Beginning With The Very Identity Of The Body That Writes.