Hungarian Language — savage it may be but of a beauty that has nothing human about it, with sonorities of another universe, powerful and corrosive, appropriate to prayer, to groans and to tears, risen out of hell to perpetuate its accent and its aura…words of nectar and cyanide.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.

We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

Tolerance - the function of an extinguished ardor - tolerance cannot seduce the young.

Does our ferocity not derive from the fact that our instincts are all too interested in other people? If we attended more to ourselves and became the center, the object of our murderous inclinations, the sum of our intolerances would diminish.

As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.