The author enters into his own death, writing begins.

I have not a desire but a need for solitude.

Literature is that which he can not read without pain, without choking on truth.

The realists do not take the photograph for a 'copy' of reality, but for an emanation of past reality, a magic, not an art.

How does meaning get into the image? Where does it end? And if it ends, what is there beyond?

I cannot classify the other, for the other is, precisely, Unique, the singular Image which has miraculously come to correspond to the speciality of my desire. The other is the figure of my truth, and cannot be imprisoned in any stereotype (which is the truth of others).

To eat steak rare . . . represents both a nature and a morality.