To Eat Steak Rare . . .

Am I In Love? --yes, Since I Am Waiting. The Other One Never Waits. Sometimes I Want To Play The Part Of The One Who Doesn't Wait; I Try To Busy Myself Elsewhere, To Arrive Late; But I Always Lose At This Game. Whatever I Do, I Find Myself There, With Nothing To Do, Punctual, Even Ahead Of Time. The Lover's Fatal Identity Is Precisely This: I Am The One Who Waits.

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

In An Initial Period, Photography, In Order To Surprise, Photographs The Notable; But Soon, By A Familiar Reversal, It Decrees Notable Whatever It Photographs. The 'anything Whatever' Then Becomes The Sophisticated Acme Of Value.

Each Photograph Is Read As The Private Appearance Of Its Referent: The Age Of Photography Corresponds Precisely To The Explosion Of The Private Into The Public, Or Rather Into The Creation Of A New Social Value, Which Is The Publicity Of The Private: The Private Is Consumes As Such, Publicly.

The Photograph Is An Extended, Loaded Evidence — As If It Caricatured Not The Figure Of What It Represents (quite The Converse) But Its Very Existence ... The Photograph Then Becomes A Bizarre (i)medium(i), A New Form Of Hallucination: False On The Level Of Perception, True On The Level Of Time: A Temporal Hallucination, So To Speak, A Modest (o)shared(i) Hallucination (on The One Hand 'it Is Not There,' On The Other 'but It Has Indeed Been'): A Mad Image, Chafed By Reality.