The author enters into his own death, writing begins.

How does meaning get into the image? Where does it end? And if it ends, what is there beyond?

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

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

I am simultaneously and contradictorily both happy and unhappy: 'to succeed' or 'to fail' have for me only ephemeral, contingent meanings (this does not stop my desires and sorrows from being violent ones); what impels me, secretly and obstinately, is not tactical: I accept and I affirm, irrespective of the true and the false, of success and failure; I am withdrawn from all finality, I live according to chance.

I encounter millions of bodies in my life; of these millions, I may desire some hundreds; but of these hundreds, I love only one.

All of a sudden it didn't bother me not being modern.