At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman, and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this very minute lose the illusory meaning with which we had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost paradise . . . that denseness and that strangeness of the world is absurd.

In order to exist just once in the world, it is necessary never again to exist.

It is a well-known fact that we always recognize our homeland at the moment we are about to lose it.

We're going forward, but nothing changes.

From the evening breeze to this hand on my shoulder, everything has its truth.

An intellectual? Yes. And never deny it. An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself. I like this, because I am happy to be both halves, the watcher and the watched. "Can they be brought together?" This is a practical question. We must get down to it. "I despise intelligence" really means: "I cannot bear my doubts.

Without freedom, no art; art lives only on the restraints it imposes on itself, and dies of all others.