[Contemporary writer] could be a kind of [Samuel] Beckett who would not be felt to be totally committed to despair.
When the rich wage war, it's the poor who die.
Smooth and smiling faces everywhere, but ruin in their eyes.
I'd come to realize that all our troubles spring from our failure to use plain, clear-cut language.
God is absence. God is the solitude of man.
What the painter adds to the canvas are the days of his life. The adventure of living, hurtling toward death.