We Don't Forget, But Something Vacant Settles

The Text You Write Must Prove To Me That It Desires Me. This Proof Exists: It Is Writing. Writing Is: The Science Of The Various Blisses Of Language, Its Kama Sutra (this Science Has But One Treatise: Writing Itself).

Is Not The Most Erotic Part Of The Body Wherever The Clothing Affords A Glimpse?

[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.

The Gesture Of The Amorous Embrace Seems To Fulfill, For A Time, The Subject's Dream Of Total Union With The Loved Being: The Longing For Consummation With The Other.

In 1850, August Salzmann Photographed, Near Jerusalem, The Road To Beith-lehem (as It Was Spelled At The Time): Nothing But Stony Ground, Olive Trees; But Three Tenses Dizzy My Consciousness: My Present, The Time Of Jesus, And That Of The Photographer, All This Under The Instance Of 'reality' - And No Longer Through The Elaborations Of The Text, Whether Fictional Or Poetic, Which Itself Is Never Credible Down To The Root.