If sleep is the apogee of physical relaxation, boredom is the apogee of mental relaxation. Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience.

Genuine polemics approach a book as lovingly as a cannibal spices a baby.

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

Our image of happiness is indissolubly bound up with the image of the past.

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

For only that which we knew and practiced at age 15 will one day constitute our attraction. And one thing, therefore, can never be made good: having neglected to run away from home.

Experience has taught me that the shallowest of communist platitudes contains more of a hierarchy of meaning than contemporary bourgeois profundity.