The Best Principals Are Not Heroes; They

Are Not Couturiers The Poets Who, From Year To Year, From Strophe To Strophe, Write The Anthem Of The Feminine Body?

The Photograph Belongs To That Class Of Laminated Objects Whose Two Leaves Cannot Be Separated Without Destroying Them Both: The Windowpane And The Landscape, And Why Not: Good And Evil, Desire And Its Object: Dualities We Can Conceive But Not Perceive... Whatever It Grants To Vision And Whatever Its Manner, A Photograph Is Always Invisible: It Is Not It That We See.

Henceforth I Would Have To Cosent To Combine Two Voices: The Voice Of Banality (to Say What Everyone Sees And Knows) And The Voice Of Singularity (to Replenish Such Banality With All The élan Of An Emotion Which Belonged Only To Myself).

Literature Is Like Phosphorus: It Shines With Its Maximum Brilliance And The Moment When It Attempts To Die.

For Me The Noise Of Time Is Not Sad: I Love Bells, Clocks, Watches — And I Recall That At First Photographic Implements Were Related To Techniques Of Cabinetmaking And The Machinery Of Precision: Cameras, In Short, Were Clocks For Seeing, And Perhaps In Me Someone Very Old Still Hears In The Photographic Mechanism The Living Sound Of The Wood.