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

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

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

People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.

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.

Joy always came after pain.