Hell is other people at breakfast.

The sun is not ridiculous, quite the contrary. On everything I like, on the rust of the construction girders, on the rotten boards of the fence, a miserly, uncertain light falls, like the look you give, after a sleepless night, on decisions made with enthusiasm the day before, on pages you have written in one spurt without crossing out a word.

What the painter adds to the canvas are the days of his life. The adventure of living, hurtling toward death.

You must be afraid, my son. That is how one becomes an honest citizen.

There it is: I am gently slipping into the water's depths, towards fear.

I must be without remorse or regrets as I am without excuse; for from the instant of my upsurge into being, I carry the weight of the world by myself alone without help, engaged in a world for which I bear the whole responsibility without being able, whatever I do, to tear myself away from this responsibility for an instant.

Photographs are not ideas. They give us ideas.