Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector's passion borders on the chaos of memories.

Nothing is poorer than a truth expressed as it was thought. Committed to writing in such cases, it is not even a bad photograph. Truth wants to be startled abruptly, at one stroke, from her self-immersion, whether by uproar, music or cries for help.

To the lover the loved one always appears as solitary.

History breaks down into images, not into stories.

Less and less frequently do we encounter people with the ability to tell a tale properly. More and more often there is embarrassment all around when the wish to hear a story is expressed. It is as if something that seemed inalienable to us, the securest among our possessions, were taken from us: the ability to exchange our experiences...Experience has fallen in value. And it looks as if it is continuing to fall into bottomlessness.

The only way of knowing a person is to love them without hope.

Capitalism is a purely cultic religion, perhaps the most extreme that ever existed.