Don't Say Mourning. It's Too Psychoanalytic. I'm

The Text Is Not A Definitive Object.

One Day, Quite Some Time Ago, I Happened On A Photograph Of Napoleon’s Youngest Brother, Jerome, Taken In 1852. And I Realized Then, With An Amazement I Have Not Been Able To Lessen Since: ‘i Am Looking At Eyes That Looked At The Emperor.’ Sometimes I Would Mention This Amazement, But Since No One Seemed To Share It, Nor Even To Understand It (life Consists Of These Little Touches Of Solitude), I Forgot About It.

Each Of Us Has His Own Rhythm Of Suffering.

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.

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