Beauty is something that burns the hand when you touch it.

If we value so highly the dignity of life, how can we not also value the dignity of death No death may be called futile.

..and certain that life consisted of a few simple signals and decisions; that death took root at the moment of birth and man’s only recourse thereafter was to water and tend it; that propagation was a fiction; consequently, society was a fiction too; that fathers and teachers, by virtue of being fathers and teachers, were guilty of a grievous sin.

It seems to me that before the photograph can exist as art it must, by its very nature choose whether it is to be a record or a testimony.

The special quality of hell is to see everything clearly down to the last detail.

This is a photograph, so it is as you see: there are no lies and no deceptions. One can detect here, elevated to an incomparably higher level, the same pathetic emotional appeal that lies concealed in every fake spiritualist photograph, every pornographic photograph; one comes to suspect that the strange, disturbing emotional appeal of the photographic art consists solely in that same repeated refrain: this is a true ghost... this is a photograph, so it is as you see: there are no lies, no deceptions.

Quite possibly, what I call happiness may coincide with what others call the moment of imminent danger