It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason I have not yet been able to fathom. I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, i thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it. I am. There are no more books to be written, thank God.

The best technique is none at all.

Life has to be given a meaning because of the obvious fact that it has no meaning.

The moment one is on the side of life; peace and security drop out of consciousness. The only peace, the only security, is in fulfillment.

I have always looked upon decay as being just as wonderful and rich an expression of life as growth.

It is almost banal to say so yet it needs to be stressed continually: all is creation, all is change, all is flux, all is metamorphosis.

I made up my mind that I would hold onto nothing, that I would expect nothing.