If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.

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

When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.

We don't have a language for the senses. Feelings are images, sensations are like musical sounds.

They courted the face on the screen, the face of translucence, the face of wax on which men found it possible to imprint the image of their fantasy.

The child who is uprooted begins to recognize that what he builds within himself is what will endure, what will withstand shattering experiences.

It is easy to love and there are so many ways to do it.