There are other relations besides reality, which the mind is capable of grasping and which also are primary, like chance, illusion, the fantastic, the dream.

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Photography intervenes in a very strange way. It makes the streets, gates, squares of the city into illustrations of a trashy novel, draws off the banal obviousness of this ancient architecture to inject it with the most pristine intensity.

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Love is made by two people, in different kinds of solitude. It can be in a crowd, but in an oblivious crowd.

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It sometimes happens that pleasure blows anywhere it damn well chooses.

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I have no friends, there are only people I love.

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Your imagination, my dear fellow, is worth more than you imagine.

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Most people have never known solitude. But there are a few of the other kind who can go back to their rooms anywhere and close the door on the whole world, and feel that they need never emerge.

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Can the knowledge deriving from reason even begin to compare with knowledge perceptible by sense?

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Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash.

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What on earth is modern exegesis up to? Oh, little lazy one! Some red wine and up! Off you go, brandishing your fork, stripped of Ophelia's useless ornaments, fire in your large nostrils, out to rake the muck of metaphors.

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