To Know That One Does Not Write

For Death Must Be Somewhere In A Society; If It Is No Longer (or Less Intensely) In Religion, It Must Be Elsewhere; Perhaps In This Image Which Produces Death While Trying To Preserve Life. Contemporary With The Withdrawal Of Rites, Photography May Correspond To The Intrusion, In Our Modern Society, Of An Asymbolic Death, Outside Of Religion, Outside Of Ritual, A Kind Of Abrupt Dive Into Literal Death.

One Day, Quite Some Time Ago, I Happened On A Photograph Of Napoleon’s Youngest Brother, Jerome, Taken In 1852. And I Realized Then, With An Amazement I Have Not Been Able To Lessen Since: ‘i Am Looking At Eyes That Looked At The Emperor.’ Sometimes I Would Mention This Amazement, But Since No One Seemed To Share It, Nor Even To Understand It (life Consists Of These Little Touches Of Solitude), I Forgot About It.

This Endured Absence Is Nothing More Or Less Than Forgetfulness. I Am, Intermittently, Unfaithful. This Is The Condition Of My Survival.

The Discourse On The Text Should Itself Be Nothing Other Than Text, Research, Textual Activity, Since The Text Is That Social Space Which Leaves No Language Safe, Outside, Nor Any Subject Of The Enunciation In Position As Judge, Master, Analyst, Confessor, Decoder. The Theory Of The Text Can Coincide Only With A Practice Of Writing.

Frontiers Are Physical As Well As Symbolic Constructions