Philosophers have often held dispute As to the seat of thought in man and brute For that the power of thought attends the latter My friend, thy beau, hath made a settled matter, And spite of dogmas current in all ages, One settled fact is better than...
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 ...
In an initial period, Photography, in order to surprise, photographs the notable; but soon, by a familiar reversal, it decrees notable whatever it photographs. The 'anything whatever' then becomes the sophisticated acme of value.
For the photograph's immobility is somehow the result of a perverse confusion between two concepts: the Real and the Live: by attesting that the object has been real, the photograph surreptitiously induces belief that it is alive, because of that del...
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:...
I imagine that the essential gesture of the Operator is to surprise something or someone (through the little hole in the camera), and that this gesture is therefore perfect when it is performed unbeknownst to the subject being photographed. From this...
One of the marks of our world is perhaps this reversal: we live according to a generalized image-repertoire. Consider the United Sates, where everything is transformed into images: only images exist and are produced and are consumes ... Such a revers...
The (i)studium(i) is ultimately always coded, the (i)punctum is not)...
I chase the wind and get lost in the clouds. I'm sweep into darkness in my search for the light.
My cup is yellow Or not, though not's Impossible It's yellow
Home will always be where comfort is, even if that comfort is pain
Come le donne le foglie si scambiano confidenze acute. A volte sono cenni, a volte illazioni portentose.
Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.
I lock my door upon myself, And bar them out; but who shall wall Self from myself, most loathed of all?
To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—
A poet could kill the dead.
Go then, O my inseperable, this once more,
Mute in that golden silence hung with green, Come down from heaven and bring me in your eyes Remembrance of all beauty that has been, And stillness from the pools of Paradise.
I must have passed the crest a while ago And now I am going down-- Strange to have crossed the crest and not to know, But the brambles were always grabbing at the hem of my gown. All the morning I thought how proud I should be To stand there straight...
Poetry ... ... a place for the genuine, Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise
