What Love Lays Bare In Me Is

When We Look At A Photograph Of Ourselves Or Of Others, We Are Really Looking At The Return Of The Dead.

Each Of Us Has His Own Rhythm Of Suffering.

All Those Young Photographers Who Are At Work In The World, Determined Upon The Capture Of Actuality, Do Not Know That They Are Agents Of Death.

Isn’t The Most Sensitive Point Of This Mourning The Fact That I Must Lose A Language — The Amorous Language? No More ‘i Love You’s.

To Try To Write Love Is To Confront The Muck Of Language: That Region Of Hysteria Where Language Is Both Too Much And Too Little, Excessive And Impoverished.