The Photograph is an extended, loaded evidence — as if it caricatured not the figure of what it represents (quite the converse) but its very existence ... The Photograph then becomes a bizarre (i)medium(i), a new form of hallucination: false on the level of perception, true on the level of time: a temporal hallucination, so to speak, a modest (o)shared(i) hallucination (on the one hand 'it is not there,' on the other 'but it has indeed been'): a mad image, chafed by reality.

Are not couturiers the poets who, from year to year, from strophe to strophe, write the anthem of the feminine body?

To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.

To whom could I put this question (with any hope of an answer)? Does being able to live without someone you loved mean you loved her less than you thought...?

The photographic image... is a message without a code.

To eat, to speak, to sing (need we add: to kiss?) are operations which have the same site of the body for origin.

What I claim is to live to the full the contradiction of my time, which may well make sarcasm the condition of truth.