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.

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

I hate artists who are not of their time.

Joy always came after pain.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.

One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.

In this mirror, I am enclosed a live and real as you. Imagine angels and not like the reflections.