A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.

You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.

A multitude of small delights constitute happiness

It is at despair at not being able to be noble and beautiful by natural means that we have made up our faces so strangely.

What strange phenomena we find in a great city, all we need do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters.

Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.

Since photography gives us every guarantee of exactitude that we could desire (they really believe that, the mad fools !), then photography and art are the same thing.