Ever since my childhood, I was haunted by the search for perfection. An imperfectly cut paper literally made me ill. I would guillotine it.

While guns rumbled in the distance, we sang, painted, made collages and wrote poems with all our might. We were seeking an art based on fundamentals, to cure the madness of the age, and find a new order of things that would restore the balance between heaven and hell.

All things, and man as well, should be like nature, without measure.

The vertical and the horizontal are the extreme signs available to man for touching the beyond and his inwardness.

To be full of joy when looking at an oeuvre is not a little thing.

Any work that is not rooted in myth and poetry or that does not partake of the depth and essence of the universe is merely a ghost.

Tooting, howling, screeching, booming, crashing, whistling, grinding, and trilling bolster his [mankind's] ego. His anxiety subsides. His inhuman void spreads monstrously like a gray vegetation.