It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony. The sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed. The order which we find in nature, and which is only an effect of art, would at once vanish. Everything would break up in chaos. There would be no seasons, no civilization, no thought, no humanity; even life would give way, and the impotent void would reign everywhere.

Cubism is the art of depicting new wholes with formal elements borrowed not only from the reality of vision, but from that of conception.

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.

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

A structure becomes architectural, and not sculptural, when its elements no longer have their justification in nature.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.