The Text Is Not A

The Photograph Is Literally An Emanation Of The Referent. From A Real Body, Which Was There, Proceed Radiations Which Ultimately Touch Me, Who Am Here; The Duration Of The Transmission Is Insignificant; The Photograph Of The Missing Being, As Sontag Says, Will Touch Me Like The Delayed Rays Of A Star.

I Encounter Millions Of Bodies In My Life; Of These Millions, I May Desire Some Hundreds; But Of These Hundreds, I Love Only One.

Literature Can No Longer Be Either Mimesis Or Mathesis But Merely Semiosis, The Adventure Of What Is Impossible To Language, In A Word: Text (it Is Wrong To Say That The Notion Of 'text' Repeats The Notion Of 'literature': Literature Represents A Finite World, The Text Figures The Infinite Of Language).

Is The Scene Always Visual? It Can Be Aural, The Frame Can Be Linguistic: I Can Fall In Love With A Sentence Spoken To Me: And Not Only Because It Says Something Which Manages To Touch My Desire, But Because Of Its Syntactical Turn (framing), Which Will Inhabit Me Like A Memory.

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.