All those young photographers who are at work in the world, determined upon the capture of actuality, do not know that they are agents of Death.

Literature is like phosphorus: it shines with its maximum brilliance and the moment when it attempts to die.

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.

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.

I have not a desire but a need for solitude.

Every exploration is an appropriation.

The haiku reproduces the designating gesture of the child pointing at whatever it is (the haiku shows no partiality for the subject), merely saying: that!