Inability, human incapacity, is the only boundary to an art.
What will be the death of me are buillabaisses, food spiced with pimiento, shellfish, and a load of exquisite rubbish which I eat in disproportionate quantities.
I do not despair in the least of ultimate triumph. I repeat it with intense conviction.
It is not I who am strong, it is reason, it is truth.
The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work.
The day is not far off when one ordinary carrot may be pregnant with revolution.