People used to envy me my inspiration. I hate inspiration. It takes you over completely. I could never wait until it passed and I got rid of it.

We should not stop to reflect, compare, analyze, possess, but flow on and through, endlessly, like music.

And there is a time, glorious too in its own way, when one scarcely exists, when one is a complete void. I mean, when boredom seems the very stuff of life.

Dedication is not what others expect of you, it is what you can give to others.

What is not in the open street is false, derived, that is to say, literature.

Whoever uses the spirit that is in him creatively is an artist. To make living itself an art, that is the goal.

We must get going. Tomorrow, tomorrow.