Cameras, In Short, Were Clocks For Seeing,

But I Never Looked Like That!’ - How Do You Know? What Is The ‘you’ You Might Or Might Not Look Like? Where Do You Find It - By Which Morphological Or Expressive Calibration? Where Is Your Authentic Body? You Are The Only One Who Can Never See Yourself Except As An Image; You Never See Your Eyes Unless They Are Dulled By The Gaze They Rest Upon The Mirror Or The Lens (i Am Interested In Seeing My Eyes Only When They Look At You): Even And Especially For Your Own Body, You Are Condemned To The Repertoire Of Its Images.

This Endured Absence Is Nothing More Or Less Than Forgetfulness. I Am, Intermittently, Unfaithful. This Is The Condition Of My Survival.

I Am Interested In Language Because It Wounds Or Seduces Me.

The Ventoux Is A God Of Evil, To Which Sacrifices Must Be Made. It Never Forgives Weakness And Extracts An Unfair Tribute Of Suffering.

To Know That One Does Not Write For The Other, To Know That These Things I Am Going To Write Will Never Cause Me To Be Loved By The One I Love (the Other), To Know That Writing Compensates For Nothing, Sublimates Nothing, That It Is Precisely There Where You Are Not--this Is The Beginning Of Writing.