To say! To know how to say! To know how to exist via the written voice and the intellectual image! This is all that matters in life; the rest is men and women, imagined loves and factitious vanities, the wiles of our digestion and forgetfulness, people squirming — like worms when a rock is lifted — under the huge abstract boulder of the meaningless blue sky.

Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.

Yes, talking to people makes me sleepy.

But do we really live? To live without knowing what life is - is that living?

Stones in the road? I save every single one, and one day I'll build a castle.

Art consists in making others feel what we feel.

Art gives us the illusion of liberation from the sordid business of being.