Fiction Is Not Imagination. It Is What

Depression Moods Lead, Almost Invariably, To Accidents. But, When They Occur, Our Mood Changes Again, Since The Accident Shows We Can Draw The World In Our Wake, And That We Still Retain Some Degree Of Power Even When Our Spirits Are Low. A Series Of Accidents Creates A Positively Light-hearted State, Out Of Consideration For This Strange Power.

One Of Life's Primal Situations; The Game Of Hide And Seek. Oh, The Delicious Thrill Of Hiding While The Others Come Looking For You, The Delicious Terror Of Being Discovered, But What Panic When, After A Long Search, The Others Abandon You! You Mustn't Hide Too Well. You Mustn't Be Too Good At The Game. The Player Must Never Be Bigger Than The Game Itself.

The Cities Of The World Are Concentric, Isomorphic, Synchronic. Only One Exists And You Are Always In The Same One. It's The Effect Of Their Permanent Revolution, Their Intense Circulation, Their Instantaneous Magnetism.

If There Is A Species Which Is More Maltreated Than Children, Then It Must Be Their Toys, Which They Handle In An Incredibly Off-hand Manner. Toys Are Thus The End Point In That Long Chain In Which All The Conditions Of Despotic High-handedness Are In Play Which Enchain Beings One To Another, From One Species To Another --cruel Divinities To Their Sacrificial Victims, From Masters To Slaves, From Adults To Children, And From Children To Their Objects.

Every Photographed Object Is Merely The Trace Left Behind By The Disappearance Of All The Rest. It Is An Almost Perfect Crime, An Almost Total Resolution Of The World, Which Merely Leave The Illusion Of A Particular Object Shining Forth, The Image Of Which Then Becomes An Impenetrable Enigma.