What the painter adds to the canvas are the days of his life. The adventure of living, hurtling toward death.

Man is the being whose project it is to be God.

The form [of literature] matters little to me, classical or not.

Some of these days, Oh, you'll miss me honey

Man's existence precedes his essence

How can I, who was not able to retain my own past, hope to save that of another?

It is meaningless that we are born, it is meaningless that we die.