Rarely has reality needed so much to be imagined.

...after a certain quantity, photos apparently taken by chance, postcards chosen according to a passing mood, begin to trace an itinerary, to map the imaginary country that stretches out before us.

We feel more emotion... before an amateur photograph linked to our own life history than before the work of a Great Photographer, because his domain partakes of art, and the intent of the souvenir-object remains at the lower level of personal history.

Rarely has reality needed so much to be imagined.

Nothing sorts out memories from ordinary moments. It is only later that they claim remembrance, when they show their scars.

In another time I guess I would have been content with filming girls and cats. But you don’t choose your time.

When men die, they enter history. When statues die, they enter art. This botany of death is what we call culture.