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17 still iX I was coming back that day with friends from Brauron to Athens. It was around noon, and we were on our way to go swimming, after having paid our respects to the young girls walking in a procession toward the altar of Artemis. The day before I had already returned, yet again to Athens,butthattimeitwasfromthetipofCapeSounion,wherewealso went swimming, and I had recalled at the time the other signature of Byron, the other petroglyph marking his passage—at Lerici this time, nearPortoVenere.AndIrecalledthetimeittookforSocratestodieafter the verdict condemning him (and the name Sounion, as we know, is inseparable from this). This was my third stay in Greece. Barely stays, regrettably, more like visits, multiple, fleeting, and all too late. Why so late? Why did I wait so long to go there, to give myself over to Greece? So late in life? But a delay, these days, is something I always love as what gives me the most to think, more than the present moment, more than the future and more than eternity, a delay before time itself. To think the atpresent of the now (present, past, or to come), to rethink instantaneity on the basis of the delay and not the other way around. But delay is not exactly the right word here, for a delay does not exist, strictly speaking. It is something that will never be, never a subject or an object. What I would rather cultivate would be a permanently delayed action [retardement à demeure], the chrono-dissymmetrical process of the moratorium [moratoire], the delay that carves out its calculations in the incalculable . still X I have always associated such delayed action [retardement] with the experience of the photographer. Not with photography but with the photographic experience of an “image hunter.” Before the snapshot or ...

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