And often he who has chosen the fate of the artist because he felt himself to be different soon realizes that he can maintain neither his art nor his difference unless he admits that he is like the others. The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from.

Whatever prevents you from doing your work has become your work.

And real nobility (that of the heart) is based on scorn, courage, and profound indifference.

Utopia is that which is in contradiction with reality.

stupidity has a knack of getting its way; as we should see if we were not always so much wrapped up in ourselves

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

In fact, it comes to this: nobody is capable of really thinking about anyone, even in the worst calamity. For really to think about someone means thinking about that person every minute of the day, without letting one’s thoughts be diverted by anything- by meals, by a fly that settles on one’s cheek, by household duties, or by a sudden itch somewhere. But there are always flies and itches. That’s why life is difficult to live.