History is a combination of reality and lies. The reality of History becomes a lie. The unreality of the fable becomes the truth.
Mirrors would do well to reflect a little more before sending back images.
Everyone’s pet is the most outstanding. This begets mutual blindness.
Tact in audacity is knowing how far you can go without going too far.
Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me how to live.
Film will only became an art when its materials are as inexpensive as pencil and paper.
There is always a period when a man with a beard shaves it off. This period does not last. He returns headlong to his beard.
Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort.
A true photographer is as rare as a true poet or a true painter.
The only work of art which succeeds is that which fails.
Without resistance you can do nothing.
The eyes of the dead are closed gently; we also have to open gently the eyes of the living.
The only way to kill death is through photography.
What is history after all? History is facts which become lies in the end.
After you have written a thing and you reread it, there is always the temptation to fix it up, to improve it, to remove its poison, blunt its sting.
Youth can only assert itself through the conviction that its ventures surpass all others and resemble nothing.
The artist must know how far to go too far.
The runner stopped dead, lost his balance, froze in one of those violent attitudes in which the photographers petrify living reality.
The artist is a kind of prison from which the works of art escape.
Don’t for a moment believe He was killing the young; He was costuming angels.