Absurd- that is the light mind that establishes its own borders.

What, in fact, is a novel but a universe in which action is endowed with form, where final words are pronounced, where people possess one another completely, and where life assumes the aspect of destiny?

Yes, I'm happy, in human terms.

In that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself--like a brother, really--I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again.

The only really committed artist is he who, without refusing to take part in the combat, at least refuses to join the regular armies and remains a freelance.

Once one's up against it, the precise manner of one's death has obviously small importance.

It's not your pictures I like; it's your painting.