There is not a single true work of art that has not in the end added to the inner freedom insight and life of each person who has known and loved it.

life is a story and god is author.life is absurd.I think so.

Creating is living doubly. The groping, anxious quest of a Proust, his meticulous collecting of flowers, of wallpapers, and of anxieties, signifies nothing else.

None of the evils which totalitarianism ... claims to remedy is worse than totalitarianism itself.

... there are two types of happiness and I have chosen that of the murderers. For I am happy. There was a time when I thought I had reached the limit of distress. Beyond that limit, there is a sterile and magnificent happiness.

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

After all perhaps the greatness of art lies in the perpetual tension between beauty and pain, the love of men and the madness of creation, unbearable solitude and the exhausting crowd, rejection and consent.