The Ventoux Is A God Of Evil,

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.

The Birth Of The Reader Must Be At The Cost Of The Death Of The Author.

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.

What The Photograph Reproduces To Infinity Has Occurred Only Once: The Photograph Mechanically Repeats What Could Never Be Repeated Existentially.

Someone Tells Me: This Kind Of Love Is Not Viable. But How Can You Evaluate Viability? Why Is The Viable A Good Thing? Why Is It Better To Last Than To Burn?