Careful Henri, you’ll be making conceptual art. (To Henri Cartier-Bresson who had forgotten to put film in his camera.) 

 I like to think that the universe I have liked will continue on a little bit longer and then will dissolve slowly, gently after I die. Fading in and out, like in the cinema, where we are accustomed to a fade-out at the end. I accept a fade-out. But what I cannot conceive of is a “click” at the end. In the case of those I have liked who have passed away, we continue to read their books, we continue to look at their drawings, their photos. It seems to me that in this way they continue to walk a bit of the way with us. And it is perhaps for this reason that I have photographed the old Paris that I liked so much when I was twenty or thirty years old. 

 It’s superficial, easy to sell, une image pute, a prostituted picture. (On his image Le Baiser de le Hotel de Ville—“The Kiss in Front of City Hall.”) 

 You’ve got to struggle against the pollution of intelligence in order to become an animal with very sharp instincts—a sort of intuitive medium—so that to photograph becomes a magical act, and slowly other more suggestive images begin to appear behind the visible image, for which the photographer cannot be held responsible. 

 There is that moment when we are truly visionary. There, everything works tremendously well. But all this is only a part of that great game that puts us into a trance, into a state of receptivity. This trance doesn’t last long, however, because life always calls you back to its commands. There are always contingencies. But somehow, despite it all, the effect does last. I think that it could be classed as a feeling. For me it is a kind of “religion of looking.” 

 ...there is the continual constraint of living everyday life to deal with. A kind of fury grows as a result because we are not really free. Then there comes a sort of slow boiling up inside so that finally we explode. Then, abruptly, there is that exasperation that at one moment translates itself into a need to be filled with wonder, a need for a kind of happiness of the eye and a need to look with intensity and with courage. 

 When we live, we occupy a certain space, and I try to make my space as small as possible. I weight 110 pounds, am five foot four, and I have a small car. I like people who are “concentrated.” 

 I find that when I am witnessing an extremely tender and intimate sight—in order to excuse myself for having been witness and voyeur to such a tender, deeply moving moment—I take refuge. The refuge I take has been in humor. I seek humor so that the moment will not be such a solemn declaration. Humor is a way to hide yourself a little bit.