Fear of error which everything recalls to me at every moment of the flight of my ideas, this mania for control, makes men prefer reason's imagination to the imagination of the senses. And yet it is always the imagination alone which is at work.

Photography intervenes in a very strange way. It makes the streets, gates, squares of the city into illustrations of a trashy novel, draws off the banal obviousness of this ancient architecture to inject it with the most pristine intensity.

O reason, reason, abstract phantom of the waking state, I had already expelled you from my dreams, now I have reached a point where those dreams are about to become fused with apparent realities: now there is only room here for myself.

Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.

The painting of tomorrow will use the photographic eye as it has used the human eye.

It sometimes happens that pleasure blows anywhere it damn well chooses.

As if one could do what one wanted with one's own body!