The true work of art is the one which the seventh wave of genius throws up the beach where the undertow of time cannot drag it back.

Purity engenders Wisdom, Passion avarice, and Ignorance folly, infatuation and darkness.

Words today are like the shells and rope of seaweed which a child brings home glistening from the beach and which in an hour have lost their luster.

We are all serving a life sentence in the dungeon of the self.

If Montaigne is a man in the prime of life sitting in his study on a warm morning and putting down the sum of his experience in his rich, sinewy prose, then Pascal is that same man lying awake in the small hours of the night when death seems very close and every thought is heightened by the apprehension that it may be his last.

The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.

Today the function of the artist is to bring imagination to science and science to imagination, where they meet, in the myth.