There is something peculiarly dispriting about the emptiness that wells up when, in a strange city, one dials the same telephone numbers in vain.

It is thanks to my evening reading alone that I am still more or less sane.

One has the impression that something is stirring inside [photographs] - it is as if one can hear little cries of despair, gémissements de désespoir... as if the photographs themselves had a memory and were remembering us and how we, the surviving, and those who preceded us, once were.

Otherwise, all I remember of the denizens of the Nocturama is that several of them had strikingly large eyes, and the fixed inquiring gaze found in certain painters and philosophers who seek to penetrate the darkness which surrounds us purely by means of looking and thinking.

We take almost all the decisive steps in our lives as a result of slight inner adjustments of which we are barely conscious.

Everything our civilization has produced is entombed.

Like our bodies and like our desires, the machines we have devised are possessed of a heart which is slowly reduced to embers.