...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.

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?

What I'm passionate about is History, and politics interest me only insofar as it is the cross-section of History in the present.

...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.

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

Rarely has reality needed so much to be imagined.