Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.

For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential - the imagination.

Art like life is an open secret.

Truth is what most contradicts itself.

I suppose the secret of his success is in his tremendous idleness which almost approaches the supernatural.

I have decided to leave Clea’s last letter un-answered. I no longer wish to coerce anyone, to make promises, to think of life in terms of compacts, resolutions, covenants. It will be up to Clea to interpret my silence according to her own needs and desires, to come to me if she has need or not, as the case may be. Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.