There has never been a time in which I have been convinced from within myself that I am alive. You see, I have only such a fugitive awareness of things around me that I always feel they were once real and are now fleeting away. I have a constant longing, my dear sir, to catch a glimpse of things as they may have been before they show themselves to me.

I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe.

In a certain sense the Good is comfortless.

It is only our conception of time that makes us call the Last Judgement by this name. It is, in fact, a kind of martial law.

May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.

Life's splendor forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its fullness, but veiled from view, deep down, invisible, far off. It is there, though, not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If you summon it by the right word, by its right name, it will come.

Picasso only registers the deformities which have not yet penetrated our consciousness. Art is a mirror which goes 'fast' like a watch - sometimes.