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

Like all dreamers, I mistook disenchantment for truth.

What never vary are the necessities of being in the world, of having to labor and to die there.

Time is too large, it can't be filled up. Everything you plunge into it is stretched and disintegrates.

That is exactly the writer's problem. What does literature stand for in a hungry world?

As long as the writer cannot write for the two billion men who are hungry, he will be oppressed by a feeling of malaise.

Why do you keep maintaining your ideas are right if you can't prove them?