What any true painting touches is an absence - an absence of which without the painting, we might be unaware. And that would be our loss.

The true content of a photograph is invisible, for it derives from a play, not with form, but with time.

Paris, I believe, is a man in his twenties in love with an older woman.

Emigration, forced or chosen, across national frontiers or from village to metropolis, is the quintessential experience of our time.

It can happen that a book, unlike its authors, grows younger as the years pass.

Unlike any other visual image, a photograph is not a rendering, an imitation or an interpretation of its subject, but actually a trace of it. No painting or drawing, however naturalist, belongs to its subject in the way that a photograph does.

The camera relieves us of the burden of memory.