The true creator may be recognized by his ability always to find about him, in the commonest and humblest thing, items worthy of note.

What I cannot follow are the manic-depressive fluctuations from total control to no control, from the serialization of all elements to chance.

What gives the artist real prestige is his imitators.

Lesser artists borrow, great artists steal.

One has a nose. The nose scents and it chooses. An artist is simply a kind of pig snouting truffles.

I wonder if memory is true, and I know that it cannot be, but that one lives by memory nevertheless and not by truth.

The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one's self. And the arbitrariness of the constraint serves only to obtain precision of execution.