We Don't Forget, But Something Vacant Settles

The Photograph Is Violent: Not Because It Shows Violent Tings, But Because On Each Occasion (i)it Fills The Sight By Force(i), And Because In It Nothing Can Be Refused Or Transformed (that We Can Sometimes Call It Mild Does Not Contradict Its Violence: Many Say That Sugar Is Mild, But To Me Sugar Is Violent, And I Call It So).

I Have Not A Desire But A Need For Solitude.

Am I In Love? --yes, Since I Am Waiting. The Other One Never Waits. Sometimes I Want To Play The Part Of The One Who Doesn't Wait; I Try To Busy Myself Elsewhere, To Arrive Late; But I Always Lose At This Game. Whatever I Do, I Find Myself There, With Nothing To Do, Punctual, Even Ahead Of Time. The Lover's Fatal Identity Is Precisely This: I Am The One Who Waits.

Pleasure Is Continually Disappointed, Reduced, Deflated, In Favor Of Strong, Noble Values: Truth, Death, Progress, Struggle, Joy, Etc. Its Victorious Rival Is Desire: We Are Always Being Told About Desire, Never About Pleasure.

For The Photograph's Immobility Is Somehow The Result Of A Perverse Confusion Between Two Concepts: The Real And The Live: By Attesting That The Object Has Been Real, The Photograph Surreptitiously Induces Belief That It Is Alive, Because Of That Delusion Which Makes Us Attribute To Reality An Absolute Superior, Somehow Eternal Value; But By Shifting This Reality To The Past ("this-has-been"), The Photograph Suggests That It Is Already Dead.