What makes photography a strange invention is that its primary raw materials are light and time.

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

Never again shall a single story be told as though it were the only one.

Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at.

Nakedness reveals itself. Nudity is placed on display. The nude is condemned to never being naked. Nudity is a form of dress.

The heart of Paris is like nothing so much as the unending interior of a house. Buildings become furniture, courtyards become carpets and arrases, the streets are like galleries, the boulevards conservatories. It is a house, one or two centuries old, rich, bourgeois, distinguished. The only way of going out, or shutting the door behind you, is to leave the centre.

Photography, because it stops the flow of life, is always flirting with death.