I have always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.

Happiness, for you we walk on a knife edge. To the eyes you are a flickering light, to the feet, thin ice that cracks; and so may no one touch you who loves you.

Narrative art, the novel, from Murasaki to Proust, has produced great works of poetry.

For my part, if I consider poetry as an object, I maintain that it is born of the necessity of adding a vocal sound (speech) to the hammering of the first tribal music.

I have always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.

Evidently the arts, all the visual arts, are becoming more democratic in the worst sense of the word.

Art is the production of objects for consumption, to be used and discarded while waiting for a new world in which man will have succeeded in freeing himself of everything, even of his own consciousness.