Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

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.

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

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

People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.

How slow life is, how violent hope is.

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