I Think It Is Vanity To Want

Why Have We Had To Invent Eden, To Live Submerged In The Nostalgia Of A Lost Paradise, To Make Up Utopias, Propose A Future For Ourselves?

I Raised The Camera, Pretended To Study A Focus Which Did Not Include Them, And Waited And Watched Closely, Sure That I Would Finally Catch The Revealing Expression, One That Would Sum It All Up, Life That Is Rhythmed By Movement But Which A Stiff Image Destroys, Taking Time In Cross Section, If We Do Not Choose The Essential Imperceptible Fraction Of It.

We Know That Attention Acts As A Lightning Rod. Merely By Concentrating On Something One Causes Endless Analogies To Collect Around It, Even Penetrate The Boundaries Of The Subject Itself: An Experience That We Call Coincidence, Serendipity – The Terminology Is Extensive. My Experience Has Been That In These Circular Travels What Is Really Significant Surrounds A Central Absence, An Absence That, Paradoxically, Is The Text Being Written Or To Be Written.

Of All Our Feelings The Only One Which Really Doesn't Belong To Us Is Hope. Hope Belongs To Life, It's Life Itself Defending Itself. Etcetera.

The Mysterious Does Not Spell Itself Out In Capital Letters, As Many Writers Believe, But Is Always Between, An Interstice.