Stealing Rimbaud

We’re undone by each other. And if we’re not, we’re missing something. This seems so clearly the case with grief, but it can be so only because it was already the case with desire. One does not always stay intact.

Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?

I like it when posts like this are actually true

and I hide in the forgotten things.

One could say that artists are people who think naturally in highly patterned ways.

You too can be carved anew by the details of your devotions.

These pages are not my confession; they’re my definition. And I feel, as I begin to write it, that I can write it with some semblance of truth.

What on earth can you do on this earth but catch at whatever comes near you, with both your fingers, until your fingers are broken?

A tragedy need not have blood and death; it’s enough that it all be filled with that majestic sadness that is the pleasure of tragedy.

And that is the precise heartbreak of the past: that is doesn’t return, not even when you don’t want it to.

The photograph is a sensitive surface (like the soul) burned by the light that strikes it, and gnawed from within by the very things that allow it to exist: light and time.