I passed beyond the unreality of the thing represented, I entered crazily into the spectacle, into the image, taking into my arms what is dead, what is going to die.

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

It is no longer the sexual which is indecent, it is the sentimental.

To eat, to speak, to sing (need we add: to kiss?) are operations which have the same site of the body for origin.

Great portrait photographers are great mythologists.

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.

The Photograph belongs to that class of laminated objects whose two leaves cannot be separated without destroying them both: the windowpane and the landscape, and why not: Good and Evil, desire and its object: dualities we can conceive but not perceive... Whatever it grants to vision and whatever its manner, a photograph is always invisible: it is not it that we see.