All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person's (or thing's) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time's relentless melt.

“A cold wind blew somewhere in me, lifting little leaves of terror and obscure longing.”

“When I’m writing, I feel again what is apparently the only paradoxical certainty: that what gets in the way of writing is having to use words.”

I wear perfume to intensify who I am. That's why I can't use fragrances that go against me. Wearing perfume is an instinctive wisdom. Perfume is an art. And like all art, it requires some self-knowledge.

“The world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.”

But good God, what's wrong with me, after all? What am I missing? Why this emptiness, this nostalgia? What is this anxiety, as if I only loved something I didn't know?

There are more things, Lucilius, that frighten us than injure us, and we suffer more in imagination than we do in reality