Death of the Father would deprive literature of many of its pleasures. If there is no longer a Father, why tell stories? Doesn't every narrative lead back to Oedipus? Isn't storytelling always a way of searching for one's origin, speaking one's conflicts with the Law, entering into the dialectic of tenderness and hatred?

Great portrait photographers are great mythologists.

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

Cameras, in short, were clocks for seeing, and perhaps in me someone very old still hears in the photographic mechanism the living sound of the wood.

The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.

I passed beyond the unreality of the thing represented, I entered crazily into the spectacle, into the image, taking into my arms what is dead, what is going to die.

Thus every writer's motto reads: mad I cannot be, sane I do not deign to be, neurotic I am.