'I never recognized her except in fragment, which is to say that I missed her being, and that therefore I missed her altogether. It was not she, and yet it was no one else. I would have recognized her among thousands of other wome, yet I did not “find” her. I recognized her differentially, not essentially. Photography thereby compelled me to perform a painful labour;straining toward the essence of her identity, I was struggling among images partially true, and therefore totally false.' -- Roland Barthes

‘So the point is that so much words existing, and we get better and better to use them for hiding the truth. You can use sound in the same way, stimulating some nice and warm feeling in middle of chaos, but from time to time we all should stimulate strictness, clearness, intensity, directness, set free some anger to bring up the basic truth of our present. Noise can be seen as the chance to go into the back of things, as a therapy which is able to confront ourselves with others lesser good looking sides of life without getting frustrated by this. See it as a source of very special energies, it gives power to see more clear and swim against.’ -- Helmut Schäfer

'This wasn’t the first time I’d seen a place I’d frequented in the past disappear in this way, the transformation of a location I’d known, but seeing this desolate spectacle, this abandoned station out of bounds behind iron bars, this deserted station with its disused platforms, whose tracks had become a craggy rain-soaked wasteland and whose main hall with its ticketing machines was now a junkyard where a rickety turnstile lay askew in the mud, I realized that time had passed since I’d left Kyoto. And if this affected me so deeply on that day, it was not only because my senses, numbed by the prevailing grayness and the alcohol in my blood, naturally put me in a melancholic frame of mind, it was also because I suddenly felt sad and powerless at this brusque testimony to the passage of time. It was hardly the result of conscious reasoning, but rather the concrete and painful, fleeting and physical feeling that I myself was part and parcel of time and its passing. Until then, the feeling of being carreid along by time had always been attenuated by the fact that I wrote – until then, in a way, writing had been a means of resisting the current that bore me along, a way of inscribing myself in time, of setting landmarks in the immateriality of its flow, incisions, scratches. '-- Jean-Philippe Toussaint

「愛夜的人要有聽夜的耳朵和看夜的眼睛，自在暗中，看一切暗。…….只有夜還算是誠實的。我愛夜，在夜間作《夜頌》。」 -- 魯迅