Language Is A Skin: I Rub My

I Am Simultaneously And Contradictorily Both Happy And Unhappy: 'to Succeed' Or 'to Fail' Have For Me Only Ephemeral, Contingent Meanings (this Does Not Stop My Desires And Sorrows From Being Violent Ones); What Impels Me, Secretly And Obstinately, Is Not Tactical: I Accept And I Affirm, Irrespective Of The True And The False, Of Success And Failure; I Am Withdrawn From All Finality, I Live According To Chance.

It Is No Longer The Sexual Which Is Indecent, It Is The Sentimental.

Man Does Not Exist Prior To Language, Either As A Species Or As An Individual.

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.

In An Initial Period, Photography, In Order To Surprise, Photographs The Notable; But Soon, By A Familiar Reversal, It Decrees Notable Whatever It Photographs. The 'anything Whatever' Then Becomes The Sophisticated Acme Of Value.