Without freedom there is no art.

The most knowledgeable person in one domain may be the most ignorant in another.

And for all his life it would be kindness and love that made him cry, never pain or persecution, which on the contrary only reinforced his spirit and his resolution.

One dies if necessary, one breaks rather than bending. But I bend, because I continue to love myself.

The act of love . . . is a confession. Selfishness screams aloud, vanity shows off, or else true generosity reveals itself.

At one time or another all normal people have wished their loved ones were dead.

[Many artists], even the greatest ones, are not sure of their own existence. So they search for proof, they judge, they condemn. It strengthens them, it is the beginnings of existence. They are alone!