...after a certain quantity, photos apparently taken by chance, postcards chosen according to a passing mood, begin to trace an itinerary, to map the imaginary country that stretches out before us.

When men die, they enter history. When statues die, they enter art. This botany of death is what we call culture.

An object dies when the gaze that lights on it has disappeared.

I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining. We do not remember. We rewrite memory much as history is rewritten. How can one remember thirst?

Nothing sorts out memories from ordinary moments. It is only later that they claim remembrance, when they show their scars.

And always the animals from each trip you bring back a gaze a pose a gesture that points to the truest of humanity better than images of humanity itself

...after a certain quantity, photos apparently taken by chance, postcards chosen according to a passing mood, begin to trace an itinerary, to map the imaginary country that stretches out before us.