His photographs seemed to express a broader and more inclusive consciousness than his words, but not because of an essential difference between the media. His utterances seemed shallow incursions into a world of language with a range of capabilities that at best far exceeded anything he could come up with, and which could stand to his pictures as the pictures stood to his words. He was haunted by the tremendous contraction that seemed to follow each time he began to write. What had seemed a moment of intelligible and panoramic awareness, what had prompted the very attempt to write was instantly transformed into a surrender to the constraints of syntax and the logical articulation of meaning. A polyphonic writing was possible, but his was committedly monophonic, earnestly non-ironic in relation to the present moment, even if aware of the broader ironies inseparable from the passing of time. He was no fan of irony, but could not help feeling a gentle relief at the ironic note injected by his pictures, irony that was both structurally intrinsic and, occasionally as well, a deliberate wink back at his words.