Objectivity can only be the author's and therefore subjective, even if he is editing a newsreel.

My encounter with another world and another culture and the beginnings of an attachment to them had set up an irritation, barely perceptible but incurable-rather like unrequited love, like a symptom of the hopelessness of trying to grasp what is boundless, or unite what cannot be joined; a reminder of how finite, how curtailed, our experience on earth must be

What is art? (...) Like a declaration of love: the consciousness of our dependence on each other. A confession. An unconscious act that none the less reflects the true meaning of life—love and sacrifice.

An artist cannot be partially sincere any more than art can be an approximation of beauty.

We have forgotten to observe. Instead of observing, we do things according to patterns.

It is perfectly possible to be a professional director or a professional writer and not to be an artist: merely a sort of executor of other people's ideas.

Unspoken feelings are unforgettable.