Television doomed us to the Family, whose household instrument it has become-what the hearth used to be, flanked by the communal kettle.

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.

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

The art of living has no history: it does not evolve: the pleasure which vanishes vanishes for good, there is no substitute for it. Other pleasures come, which replace nothing. No progress in pleasures, nothing but mutations.

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.

All those young photographers who are at work in the world, determined upon the capture of actuality, do not know that they are agents of Death.

Isn’t the most sensitive point of this mourning the fact that I must lose a language — the amorous language? No more ‘I love you’s.