One forges one's style on the terrible anvil of daily deadlines.

Every wave is a water sprite who swims in the current, each current is a path which snakes towards my palace, and my palace is fluidly built at the bottom of the lake, in the triangle of earth, fire and water.

They talked so, with secret hearts, without needing words, talking of other things... They could have suddenly continued their confessions aloud, without ceasing to understand each other.

There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.

Truth is on the march, and nothing will stop it.

The thought is a deed. Of all deeds she fertilizes the world most.

The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work.