On my way out I was even going to shake his hand, but I remembered just in time that I'd killed a man.

What really counted was the possibility of escape, a leap to freedom, out of the implacable ritual, a wild run for it that would give whatever chance for hope there was. Of course, hope meant being cut down on some street corner, as you ran like mad, by a random bullet. But when I really thought it through, nothing was going to allow me such a luxury. Everything was against it; I would just be caught up in the machinery again.

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

Whoever today speaks of human existence in terms of power, efficiency, and historical tasks is an actual or potential assassin.

Where there is no hope, we must invent it.

In order to be created, a work of art must first make use of the dark forces of the soul

The Four Conditions of Happiness: Life in the open air, Love for another being,Freedom from ambition,Creation