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

Let no thought pass incognito, and keep your notebook as strictly as the authorities keep their register of aliens.

The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out.

The adjustment of reality to the masses and of the masses to reality is a process of unlimited scope, as much for thinking as for perception.

The film is the first art form capable of demonstrating how matter plays tricks on man.

Books, too, begin like the week – with a day of rest in memory of their creation. The preface is their Sunday.

Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven tissue of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up.