A work is never completed except by some accident such as weariness, satisfaction, the need to deliver, or death: for, in relation to who or what is making it, it can only be one stage in a series of inner transformations.

It would be impossible to "love" anyone or anything one knew completely. Love is directed towards what lies hidden in its object.

Photography invites one to give up any attempt to delineate such things as can delineate themselves.

The folly of mistaking oneself for an oracle is built right into us.

Science is a collection of successful recipes.

What one wrote playfully, another reads with tension and passion; what one wrote with tension and passion, another reads playfully.

My soul is nothing now but the dream dreamt by matter struggling with itself!