The hearts of women are like those little pieces of furniture with secret hiding - places, full of drawers fitted into each other; you go a lot of trouble, break your nails, and in the bottom find some withered flower, a few grains of dust - or emptiness!

Me and my books in the same apartment, like a gherkin in its vinegar.

[The artist] is like a pump; he has inside him a great pipe that reaches down into the entrails of things, the deepest layers. He sucks up what was lying there below, dim and unnoticed, and brings it in great jets to the sunlight.

Art requires neither complaisance nor politeness; nothing but faith, faith and freedom.

There is no truth. There is only perception.

Reality does not conform to the ideal, but confirms it.

The whole dream of democracy is to raise the proletarian to the level of stupidity attained by the bourgeois.