To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.

To eat steak rare . . . represents both a nature and a morality.

What love lays bare in me is energy.

Ensnared in his starvation, Chaplin-man is always just below political awareness. A strike is a catastrophe for him because it threatens a man truly blinded by his hunger; this man achieves an awareness of the working-class condition only when the poor man and the proletarian coincide under the gaze (and the blows) of the police.

Are not couturiers the poets who, from year to year, from strophe to strophe, write the anthem of the feminine body?

The realists do not take the photograph for a 'copy' of reality, but for an emanation of past reality, a magic, not an art.

In an initial period, Photography, in order to surprise, photographs the notable; but soon, by a familiar reversal, it decrees notable whatever it photographs. The 'anything whatever' then becomes the sophisticated acme of value.