Who are we, who is each one of us, if not a combination of experiences, information, books we have read, things imagined? Each life is an encyclopedia, a library, an inventory of objects, a series of styles, and everything can be constantly shuffled and reordered in every way conceivable.

Everything can change, but not the language that we carry inside us, like a world more exclusive and final than one's mother's womb.

seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space

Photography has a meaning only if it exhausts all possible images.

Elsewhere is a negative mirror. The traveler recognizes the little that is his, discovering the much he has not had and will never have.

The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space.

The ideal place for me is the one in which it is most natural to live as a foreigner.