Each Of Us Has His

I Cannot Classify The Other, For The Other Is, Precisely, Unique, The Singular Image Which Has Miraculously Come To Correspond To The Speciality Of My Desire. The Other Is The Figure Of My Truth, And Cannot Be Imprisoned In Any Stereotype (which Is The Truth Of Others).

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.

It Is As If The Photograph Always Carries Its Referent With Itself, Both Affected By The Same Amorous Or Funereal Immobility, At The Very Heart Of The Moving World: They Are Glued Together, Limb By Limb, Like The Condemned Man And The Corpse In Certain Tortures; Or Even Like Those Pairs Of Fish (sharks, I Think, According To Michelet) Which Navigate In Convoy, As Though United By An Eternal Coitus.

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.

Wine Is A Part Of Society Because It Provides A Basis Not Only For A Morality But Also For An Environment; It Is An Ornament In The Slightest Ceremonials Of French Daily Life, From The Snack To The Feast, From The Conversation At The Local Caft To The Speech At A Formal Dinner.