A day without an argument is like an egg without salt.

What do you see when you see me?' She asked him, burying her own face in his bosom. 'Do you want the truth?' She nodded. 'The firing squad.' 'That's not the whole truth. Try again.' 'Insatiability,' he said with some bitterness. 'That's oblique but altogether too simple. Once more,' she insisted. 'One more time.' He was silent for several minutes. 'The map of a country in which I only exist by virtue of the extravagance of my metaphors.' 'Now you're being too sophisticated. And, besides, what metaphors do we have in common?

Drosselmeier had unwittingly exposed himself to an overdose of reality, and it had destroyed his reason.

All artists, they say, are a little mad. This madness is, to a certain extent, a self-created myth designed to keep the generality away from the phenomenally close-knit creative community. Yet, in the world of the artists, the consciously eccentric are always respectful and admiring if those who have the courage to be genuinely a little mad.

There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.

Language is power, life and the instrument of culture, the instrument of domination and liberation.

I will tell you what Jeanne was like. She was like a piano in a country where everyone has had their hands cut off.