What has been forgotten is never something purely individual. Everything forgotten mingles with what has been forgotten of the prehistoric world, forms countless, uncertain, changing compounds, yielding a constant flow of new, strange products.

Living substance conquers the frenzy of destruction only in the ecstasy of procreation.

Not to find one's way in a city may well be uninteresting and banal. It requires ignorance - nothing more. But to lose oneself in a city - as one loses oneself in a forest - that calls for a quite different schooling. Then, signboard and street names, passers-by, roofs, kiosks, or bars must speak to the wanderer like a cracking twig under his feet in the forest.

Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.

The camera introduces us to unconscious optics as does psychoanalysis to unconscious impulses.

For what is the program of the bourgeois parties? A bad poem on springtime, filled to bursting with metaphors.

Counsel woven into the fabric of real life is wisdom.