Our art is a way of being dazzled by truth: the light on the grotesquely grimacing retreating face is true, and nothing else.

Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love, an unearthly love but still for earthly objects.

Self-control means wanting to be effective at some random point in the infinite radiations of my spiritual existence.

Love is a drama of contradictions.

Art is for the artist is only suffering through which he releases himself for further suffering.

I can prove at any time that my education tried to make another person out of me than the one I became. It is for the harm, therefore, that my educators could have done me in accordance with their intentions that I reproach them; I demand from their hands the person I now am, and since they cannot give him to me, I make of my reproach and laughter a drumbeat sounding in the world beyond.

Idleness is the beginning of all vice, the crown of all virtues.