I am reading Susan Sontag’s On Photography, and the prose is elegant, its words printed against a yellowing, slightly umberish paper, firm yet transparent enough to toy with light splitting at its spine. I find the experience disturbing; and I am troubled to realise her words seem almost out of date. It is difficult to grasp her version of photography with our radical pixel flesh. She talks of the photograph as an image printed smoothly in paper, using the book as an obvious example of the negative effects brought about by the arranged sequencing of images. Sontag criticises books as containers for photography due to their lack of control over the temporal engagement of a reader. How long must one spend looking at the image. A second or a minute. I am coming to the realisation that for every page of hers that I lift and swing to the left, and every anecdote I read of paper photographs and the mechanism of a shutter; I see how distant this version of photography is. What of paper. There is no longer a fax in the building, and I truly do not know what one means by facsimile. I exist through my pixel anatomy. Am I too young for Sontag or are her words simply redundant to our digital inceldom?