The Art Of Living Has

The Winter Photograph Was My Ariadne, Not Because It Would Help Me Discover A Secret Thing (monster Or Treasure), But Because It Would Tell Me What Constituted That Thread Which Drew Me Toward Photography. I Had Understood That Henceforth I Must Interrogate The Evidence Of Photography, Not From The Viewpoint Of Pleasure, But In Relation To What We Romantically Call Love And Death.

Architecture Is Always Dream And Function, Expression Of A Utopia And Instrument Of A Convenience.

To Hide A Passion Totally (or Even To Hide, More Simply, Its Excess) Is Inconceivable: Not Because The Human Subject Is Too Weak, But Because Passion Is In Essence Made To Be Seen: The Hiding Must Be Seen: I Want You To Know That I Am Hiding Something From You, That Is The Active Paradox I Must Resolve: At One And The Same Time It Must Be Known And Not Known: I Want You To Know That I Don't Want To Show My Feelings: That Is The Message I Address To The Other.

[photography] Allows Me To Accede To An Infra-knowledge; It Supplies Me With A Collection Of Partial Objects And Can Flatter A Certain Fetishism Of Mine: For This 'me' Which Like Knowledge, Which Nourishes A Kind Of Amorous Preference For It. In The Same Way, I Like Certain Biographical Features Which, In A Writer's Life, Delight Me As Much As Certain Photographs; I Have Called These Features 'biographemes'; Photography Has The Same Relation To History That The Biographeme Has To Biography.

It Is No Longer The Sexual Which Is Indecent, It Is The Sentimental.