Why Is It Better To Last Than

I Passed Beyond The Unreality Of The Thing Represented, I Entered Crazily Into The Spectacle, Into The Image, Taking Into My Arms What Is Dead, What Is Going To Die.

It Must Always Be Considered As Though Spoken By A Character In A Novel

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.

Each Of Us Has His Own Rhythm Of Suffering.

Who Speaks Is Not Who Writes, And Who Writes Is Not Who Is.