The Louvre is a morgue; you go there to identify your friends.

The joy of youth is to disobey; but the trouble is that there are no longer any orders.

At all costs the true world of childhood must prevail, must be restored; that world whose momentous, heroic, mysterious quality is fed on airy nothings, whose substance is so ill-fitted to withstand the brutal touch of adult inquisition.

The artist must know how far to go too far.

One sits down first; one thinks afterwards.

Anything of any importance cannot help but be unrecognizable, since it bears no resemblance to anything already known.

Poetry, being elegance itself, cannot hope to achieve visibility... It insists on living its own life.