In the love stirred by Photography (by certain photographs), another music is heard, its mane oddly old-fashioned: Pity. I collected in a last thought the images which had "pricked" me...in each of them, inescapably, I passed beyond the unreality of the thing represented, I entered crazily into the spectacle, into the image, taking into my arms what is dead, what is going to die, as Nietzsche did when...on January 3, 1889, he threw himself in tears on the neck of a beaten horse: gone mad for Pity's sake...