There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.

The memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment.

I blame the newspapers because every day they call our attention to insignificant things, while three or four times in our lives,we read books that contain essential things. Once we feverishly tear the band of paper enclosing our newspapers, things should change and we should find--I do not know--the Pensées by Pascal!

Photography is the product of complete alienation.

Habit is a second nature which prevents us from knowing the first, of which it has neither the cruelties nor the enchantments.

You can't learn the truth about a man's intentions by asking him.

Perhaps it is not-being that is the true state, and all our dream of life is inexistent; but, if so, we feel that these phrases of music, these conceptions which exist in relation to our dream, must be nothing either. We shall perish, but we have as hostages these divine captives who will follow and share our fate. And death in their company is somehow less bitter, less inglorious, perhaps even less probable.