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

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.

Oh, the fools, like a lot of good little schoolboys, scared to death of anything they've been taught is wrong!

The conclusion does not belong to the artist.

If you shut up truth and bury it under the ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.

A ruined man fell from her hands like a ripe fruit, to lie rotting on the ground.

I am spending delightful afternoons in my garden, watching everything living around me. As I grow older, I feel everything departing, and I love everything with more passion.