Our squalid society rushed, Narcissus to a man, to gaze on its trivial image on a scrap of metal.

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.

It is from the womb of art that criticism was born.

The will to work must dominate, for art is long and time is brief.

I love Wagner, but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by its tail outside a window and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws.

Genius is no more than childhood recaptured at will, childhood equipped now with man's physical means to express itself, and with the analytical mind that enables it to bring order into the sum of experience, involuntarily amassed.

And over your unconsecrated head you'll hear the howling wolves lament their fate and yours the livelong year.