All Of A Sudden It Didn't Bother

[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.

As Spectator I Wanted To Explore Photography Not As A Question (a Theme) But As A Wound.

It Is Said That Mourning, By Its Gradual Labour, Slowly Erases Pain; I Could Not, I Cannot Believe This; Because For Me, Time Eliminates The Emotion Of Loss (i Do Note Weep), That Is All. For The Rest, Everything Has Remained Motionless. For What I Have Lost Is Not A Figure (the Mother), But A Being; And Not A Being, But A Quality (a Soul): Not The Indispensable, But The Irreplaceable.

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

In Front Of The Photograph Of My Mother As A Child, I Tell Myself: She Is Going To Die: I Shudder, Like Winnicott's Psychotic Patient, Over A Catastrophe Which Has Already Occurred. Whether Or Not The Subject Is Already Dead, Every Photograph Is This Catastrophe.