Human civilization has been no more than a strange luminescence growing more intense by the hour, of which no one can say when it will begin to wane and when it will fade away.

At the time I could no more believe my eyes than now I can trust my memory.

Only in the books written in earlier times did she sometimes think she found some faint idea of what it might be like to be alive.

To set one's name to a work gives no one a title to be remembered, for who knows how many of the best of men have gone without a trace? The iniquity of oblivion blindly scatters her poppyseed and when wretchedness falls upon us one summer's day like snow, all we wish for is to be forgotten.

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.

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

By all means be experimental, but let the reader be part of the experiment