Joy came always after pain.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

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.

Come to the edge.' 'We can't. We're afraid.' 'Come to the edge.' 'We can't. We will fall!' 'Come to the edge.' And they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.

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

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

I hate artists who are not of their time.