Since it's now fashionable to laugh at the conservative French Academy, I have remained a rebel by joining it.

The only way to kill death is through photography.

At all costs the true world of childhood must prevail, must be restored; that world whose momentous, heroic, mysterious quality is fed on airy nothings, whose substance is so ill-fitted to withstand the brutal touch of adult inquisition.

Fight any instinct to be humorless, for humorlessness is the worst of all absurdities.

The runner stopped dead, lost his balance, froze in one of those violent attitudes in which the photographers petrify living reality.

Do as the beautiful woman: see to your figure and your petticoats. Though, of course, I am not speaking literally.

The audience bursts into laughter. With the tragic gag I don't expect the audience to laugh (if they do, I have failed) but I expect a black silence from them that is almost as violent: as laughter.