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.

Where you are tender, you speak your plural.

The necessary condition for an image is sight.

Every photograph is a certificate of presence.

The Ventoux is a god of Evil, to which sacrifices must be made. It never forgives weakness and extracts an unfair tribute of suffering.

Someone tells me: this kind of love is not viable. But how can you evaluate viability? Why is the viable a Good Thing? Why is it better to last than to burn?

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.