Literature Is The Question Minus The Answer.

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.

Cameras, In Short, Were Clocks For Seeing, And Perhaps In Me Someone Very Old Still Hears In The Photographic Mechanism The Living Sound Of The Wood.

All Of A Sudden It Didn't Bother Me Not Being Modern.

Is Not The Most Erotic Portion Of A Body Where The Garment Gapes? In Perversion (which Is The Realm Of Textual Pleasure) There Are No "erogenous Zones" (a Foolish Expression, Besides); It Is Intermittence, As Psychoanalysis Has So Rightly Stated, Which Is Erotic: The Intermittence Of Skin Flashing Between Two Articles Of Clothing (trousers And Sweater), Between Two Edges (the Open-necked Shirt, The Glove And The Sleeve); It Is This Flash Itself Which Seduces, Or Rather: The Staging Of An Appearance-as-disappearance.

The Text Is Plural. Which Is Not Simply To Say That It Has Several Meanings, But That It Accomplishes The Very Plural Of Meaning: An Irreducible (and Not Merely An Acceptable) Plural. The Text Is Not A Co-existence Of Meanings But A Passage, An Overcrossing; Thus It Answers Not To An Interpretation, Even A Liberal One, But To An Explosion, A Dissemination.