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.

Every exploration is an appropriation.

Thus every writer's motto reads: mad I cannot be, sane I do not deign to be, neurotic I am.

There is only one way left to escape the alienation of present day society: to retreat ahead of it.

To dope the racer is as criminal, as sacrilegious, as trying to imitate God; it is stealing from God the privilege of the spark.

Great portrait photographers are great mythologists.

Am I in love? --yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.