The brightest light, the light of Italy, the purest sky of Scandinavia in the month of June is only a half-light when one compares it to the light of childhood. Even the nights were blue.

Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together.

The critic should describe, and not prescribe.

Drama lies in extreme exaggeration of the feelings, an exaggeration that dislocates flat everyday reality.

Childhood is over the moment things are no longer astonishing.

An avant-garde man is like an enemy inside a city he is bent on destroying, against which he rebels; for like any system of government, an established form of expression is also a form of oppression. The avant-garde man is the opponent of an existing system.

To me the world seems grotesque, absurd, ridiculous, painful.