Television doomed us to the Family, whose household instrument it has become-what the hearth used to be, flanked by the communal kettle.

If I acknowledge my dependency, I do so because for me it is a means of signifying my demand: in the realm of love, futility is not a "weakness" or an "absurdity": it is a strong sign: the more futile, the more it signifies and the more it asserts itself as strength.)

One day, quite some time ago, I happened on a photograph of Napoleon’s youngest brother, Jerome, taken in 1852. And I realized then, with an amazement I have not been able to lessen since: ‘I am looking at eyes that looked at the Emperor.’ Sometimes I would mention this amazement, but since no one seemed to share it, nor even to understand it (life consists of these little touches of solitude), I forgot about it.

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

I have not a desire but a need for solitude.

The incapacity to name is a good symptom of disturbance.

I love you is unsubtle. It removes explanations, facilities, degrees, scruples.