An artist discovers his genius the day he dares not to please.

The basic problem is that our civilization, which is a civilization of machines, can teach man everything except how to be a man.

Always, however brutal an age may actually have been, its style transmits its music only.

Every young man's heart is a graveyard in which are inscribed the names of a thousand dead artists but whose only actual denizens are a few mighty, often antagonistic, ghosts.

The crucial discovery was made that, in order to become painting, the universe seen by the artist had to become a private one created by himself.

Nothing is harder than to get people to think about what they are going to do.

What is Man? A miserable little pile of secrets.