On the ridge where the great artist moves forward, every step is an adventure, an extreme risk. In that risk, however, and only there, lays the freedom of Art.

For me, physical love has always been bound to an irresistible feeling of innocence and joy. Thus, I cannot love in tears but in exaltation.

At a certain level of suffering or injustice no one can do anything for anyone. Pain is solitary.

There is not one talent for living and another for creating. The same suffices for both. And one can be sure that the talent that could not produce but an artificial work could not sustain but a frivolous life.

One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I cling like a miser to the freedom that disappears as soon as there is an excess of things.

If the world were clear, art would not exist.