[b]Roland Barthes
It is as if the Photograph always carries its referent with itself, both affected by the same amorous or funereal immobility, at the very heart of the moving world: they are glued together, limb by limb, like the condemned man and the corpse in certain tortures; or even like those pairs of fish (sharks, I think, according to Michelet) which navigate in convoy, as though united by an eternal coitus.[/b]
On the other hand, sometimes a photograph of a cigar is just a photograph of a cigar.
We don’t forget, but something vacant settles in us.
Maybe, but is it vacant enough?
Henceforth I would have to cosent to combine two voices: the voice of banality (to say what everyone sees and knows) and the voice of singularity (to replenish such banality with all the élan of an emotion which belonged only to myself).
Of course they never actually provide us with examples of this.
Each photograph is read as the private appearance of its referent: the age of Photography corresponds precisely to the explosion of the private into the public, or rather into the creation of a new social value, which is the publicity of the private: the private is consumes as such, publicly.
Of course they never actually provide us with examples of this.
To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.
It’s a good thing then that we’re philosophers.
If I had to create a god, I would lend him a “slow understanding: a kind of drip-by-drip understanding of problems. People who understand quickly frighten me.
How about those who never understand at all. You, for example.