I love you is unsubtle. It removes explanations, facilities, degrees, scruples.

The skyscraper establishes the block, the block creates the street, the street offers itself to man.

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

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.

A photograph is always invisible, it is not it that we see.

One must turn the tongue seven times in the mouth before speaking.

For me the noise of Time is not sad: I love bells, clocks, watches — and I recall that at first photographic implements were related to techniques of cabinetmaking and the machinery of precision: cameras, in short, were clocks for seeing, and perhaps in me someone very old still hears in the photographic mechanism the living sound of the wood.