Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.

We did not touch each other. We were both leaning over the abyss.

The city was asleep on its right side and shaking with violent nightmares. Long puffs of snoring came out of the chimneys. Its feet were sticking out because the clouds did not cover it altogether. There was a hole in them and the white feathers were falling out. The city had untied all its bridges like so many buttons to feel at ease. Wherever there was a lamplight the city scratched itself until it went out.

I know no joy as great as a moment of rushing into a new love, no ecstasy like that of a new love.

Adolescence is like cactus.

it was while helping others to be free that I gained my own freedom.

The ivory tower of the artist may be the only stronghold left for human values, cultural treasures, man’s cult of beauty.