I see artists as a great battalion moving through paint, words, music towards cosmological interpretation.

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

A taste older than meat, older than wine. A taste as old as cold water.

Lovers can find nothing to say to each other that has not been said and unsaid a thousand times over. Kisses were invented to translate such nothings into wounds

We are all hunting for rational reasons for believing in the absurd.

Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.

Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection.