Life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed by a desire to change his bed.

What could be more simple and more complex, more obvious and more profound than a portrait.

Genius is nothing more or less than childhood recovered by will, a childhood how equipped for self-expression with an adult's capacities.

Blessed art Thou, Lord, who giveth suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities.

From that moment onwards, our loathsome society rushed, like Narcissus, to contemplate its trivial image on a metallic plate. A form of lunacy, an extraordinary fanaticism took hold of these new sun-worshippers.

I throw fresh seeds out. Who knows what survives?

A silent mouth is sweet to hear.