We don't forget, but something vacant settles in us.

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

We know that the war against intelligence is always waged in the name of common sense.

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.

Literature is like phosphorus: it shines with its maximum brilliance and the moment when it attempts to die.

Ultimately, Photography is subversive, not when it frightens, repels, or even stigmatizes, but when it is pensive, when it thinks.

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is not tactical: I accept and I affirm, irrespective of the true and the false, of success and failure; I am withdrawn from all finality, I live according to chance.