Sometimes we reveal ourselves when we are least like ourselves.

I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.

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

Dreams are essential to life.

Most artists have retired too absolutely; they grow rusty, inflexible to the flow of currents.

I sat there for three hours and did not feel the time or the boredom of our talk and its foolish disconnection. As long as I could hear his voice, I was quite lost, quite blind, quite outside my own self.

Human beings can reach such desperate solitude that they may cross a boundary beyond which words cannot serve, and at such moments there is nothing left for them but to bark.