An object dies when the gaze that lights on it has disappeared.

Nothing sorts out memories from ordinary moments. It is only later that they claim remembrance, when they show their scars.

Rarely has reality needed so much to be imagined.

In another time I guess I would have been content with filming girls and cats. But you don’t choose your time.

When men die, they enter history. When statues die, they enter art. This botany of death is what we call culture.

I’ve been round the world several times and now only banality still interests me.

...after a certain quantity, photos apparently taken by chance, postcards chosen according to a passing mood, begin to trace an itinerary, to map the imaginary country that stretches out before us.

I betrayed Gutenberg for McLuhan long ago.

I chose a pseudonym, Chris Marker, pronounceable in most languages, because I was very intent on traveling.

And always the animals from each trip you bring back a gaze a pose a gesture that points to the truest of humanity better than images of humanity itself

What I'm passionate about is History, and politics interest me only insofar as it is the cross-section of History in the present.

Never was a blind person blinded by the light that overwhelms his skin but blinded by the darkness within

I don't need every answer. Just the right answer.

Poetry is more a threshold than a path.

We're all inseparably part of each other. We all coexist in each other.

You know, I'm confident before I go out and play a match that I know, you know, I've put in the work and like I feel confident that I am going to go out there and play well.

I can play the air guitar really, really well.

The church does not need apologists of its causes nor crusaders of its battles, but sowers humble and confident of the truth, who ... trust of its power

You can never be satisfied as an entrepreneur, and the basis of any successful, growing business is new clients.

The center of human nature is rooted in ten thousand ordinary acts of kindness that define our days.

When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.