I think we all have a little bit of that beautiful madness that keeps us walking when everything around us is so insanely sane.

Wordplay hides a key to reality that the dictionary tries in vain to lock inside every free word.

Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.

There was a time when I thought a great deal about the axolotls. I went to see them at the aquarium at the Jardin des Plantes and stayed for hours watching them, observing their immobility; their faint movements. Now I am an axolotl.

I raised the camera, pretended to study a focus which did not include them, and waited and watched closely, sure that I would finally catch the revealing expression, one that would sum it all up, life that is rhythmed by movement but which a stiff image destroys, taking time in cross section, if we do not choose the essential imperceptible fraction of it.

Human history is the sad result of each one looking out for himself.

Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn't belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it's life itself defending itself. Etcetera.