Nothing is likely about masterpieces, least of all whether there will be any.
I knew I had to write a Mass of my own, but a real one.
The more controlled, limited and tormented art is, the freer it is.
Is it not by love alone that we succeed in penetrating to the very essence of being?
An artist is like a pig snouting truffles.
Silence, which will save from shame, will also deprive me of fame.