Every Photograph Is A Certificate Of Presence.

The Winter Photograph Was My Ariadne, Not Because It Would Help Me Discover A Secret Thing (monster Or Treasure), But Because It Would Tell Me What Constituted That Thread Which Drew Me Toward Photography. I Had Understood That Henceforth I Must Interrogate The Evidence Of Photography, Not From The Viewpoint Of Pleasure, But In Relation To What We Romantically Call Love And Death.

When We Look At A Photograph Of Ourselves Or Of Others, We Are Really Looking At The Return Of The Dead.

Why Is It Better To Last Than To Burn?

Pleasure Is Continually Disappointed, Reduced, Deflated, In Favor Of Strong, Noble Values: Truth, Death, Progress, Struggle, Joy, Etc. Its Victorious Rival Is Desire: We Are Always Being Told About Desire, Never About Pleasure.

The Gesture Of The Amorous Embrace Seems To Fulfill, For A Time, The Subject's Dream Of Total Union With The Loved Being: The Longing For Consummation With The Other.