The more I produce, the less I am certain. On the road along which the artist walks, night falls ever more densely. Finally, he dies blind.

And so I learned that familiar paths traced in the dusk of summer evenings may lead as well to prison as to innocent untroubled sleep.

Empires and churches are born under the sun of death.

Working conditions for me have always been those of the monastic life: solitude and frugality. Except for frugality, they are contrary to my nature, so much so that work is a violence I do to myself.

Freedom is the right to never have to lie.

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

Forever I shall be a stranger to myself. In psychology as in logic, there are truths but no truth.