Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.

The skyscraper establishes the block, the block creates the street, the street offers itself to man.

What I claim is to live to the full the contradiction of my time, which may well make sarcasm the condition of truth.

The photographic image... is a message without a code.

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.