He has the manner of a giant with the look of a child, a lazy activeness, a mad wisdom, a solitude encompassing the world.
The speed of a runaway horse counts for nothing.
He who is affected by an insult is infected by it.
Art is a marriage of the conscious and the unconscious.
And history becomes legend and legend becomes history.
The hot hall full of painted girls and American soldiers is a saloon in some Western film. This noise drenches us, wakens us to do something else. It shows us a lost path.