Abstract
Every day I have to learn more about shame from the people in old photographs in second-hand stores, and from the people in the photographic studies of damage and grief, where the light assails a window and the figure's back is all we see?or from the very faces we never witness in these pictures, several of whom I passed today in their windows, some hesitant, some completely committed to worthlessness? or even from my own face, handed up suddenly by the car's mirror or a glass door. When I was waiting for a bus, the man beside me showed me a picture of a naked youth with an erection, and the loneliness in his face as he held this photograph was like a light waking me from the dead. I was more ashamed of it than I was of my own a few days later?just tonight, in fact? when solitude visited me on a residential street
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