Language Transcends Us And Yet We Speak.

The Body Is To Be Compared, Not To A Physical Object, But Rather To A Work Of Art.

My Hold On The Past And The Future Is Precarious And My Possession Of My Own Time Is Always Postponed Until A Stage When I May Fully Understand It, Yet This Stage Can Never Be Reached, Since It Would Be One More Moment Bounded By The Horizon Of Its Future, And Requiring In Its Turn, Further Developments In Order To Be Understood.

The Photograph Keeps Open The Instants Which The Onrush Of Time Closes Up Forthwith; It Destroys The Overtaking, The Overlapping, The Metamorphosis Of Time.

Being Established In My Life, Buttressed By My Thinking Nature, Fastened Down In This Transcendental Field Which Was Opened For Me By My First Perception, And In Which All Absence Is Merely The Obverse Of A Presence, All Silence A Modality Of The Being Of Sound, I Enjoy A Sort Of Ubiquity And Theoretical Eternity, I Feel Destined To Move In A Flow Of Endless Life, Neither The Beginning Nor The End Of Which I Can Experience In Thought, Since It Is My Living Self Who Think Of Them, And Since Thus My Life Always Precedes And Survives Itself.

Our Own Body Is In The World As The Heart Is In The Organism: It Keeps The Visible Spectacle Constantly Alive, It Breathes Life Into It And Sustains It Inwardly, And With It Forms A System.