The Winter Photograph was my Ariadne, not because it would help me discover a secret thing (monster or treasure), but because it would tell me what constituted that thread which drew me toward Photography. I had understood that henceforth I must interrogate the evidence of Photography, not from the viewpoint of pleasure, but in relation to what we romantically call love and death.

Literature is the question minus the answer.

For the theatre one needs long arms; it is better to have them too long than too short. An artiste with short arms can never, never make a fine gesture.

Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.

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

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.

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