This endured absence is nothing more or less than forgetfulness. I am, intermittently, unfaithful. This is the condition of my survival.

There is only one way left to escape the alienation of present day society: to retreat ahead of it.

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.

Today there is no symbolic compensation for old age, no recognition of a specific value: wisdom, perceptiveness, experience, vision.

Are not couturiers the poets who, from year to year, from strophe to strophe, write the anthem of the feminine body?

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.

Great portrait photographers are great mythologists.