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

It receives you when you come and dismisses you when you go.

Maybe innocence makes its way easiest through the elemental chaos of this world.

I am free and that is why I am lost.

Some books seem like a key to unfamiliar rooms in one’s own castle.

I am on the hunt for constructions. I come into a room and find them whitely merging in a corner.

My grandfather used to say: Life is astoundingly short. To me, looking back over it, life seems so foreshortened that I scarcely understand, for instance, how a young man can decide to ride over to the next village without being afraid that -not to mention accidents- even the span of a normal happy life may fall far short of the time needed for such a journey.