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

It is in a small village in the Pyrenees where no one knows me 7that my life will come to a close.... There is not enough time remaining for me to write all the letters I would like to write.

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.

The good tidings which the historian of the past brings with throbbing heart may be lost in a void the very moment he opens his mouth.

The illiterate of the future will not be the man who cannot read the alphabet, but the one who cannot take a photograph.

In every case the storyteller is a man who has counsel for his readers.

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