I hate artists who are not of their time.

When man wanted to make a machine that would walk he created the wheel, which does not resemble a leg.

Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.

I don't want to work. I want to smoke.

Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.

The new painters do not propose, any more than did their predecessors, to be geometers. But it may be said that geometry is to the plastic arts what grammar is to the art of the writer. Today, scholars no longer limit themselves to the three dimensions of Euclid. The painters have been lead quite naturally, one might say by intuition, to preoccupy themselves with the new possibilities of spatial measurement which, in the language of the modern studios, are designated by the term fourth dimension.

I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.