Comedians are the nearest to suicide.

Gamblers and lovers really play to lose.

Prohibitions create the desire they were intended to cure.

The heaviest impact of the work of art is in the guts. Art does not reason. It manhandles you and changes you.

These are the moments which are not calculable, and cannot be assessed in words; they live on in the solution of memory, like wonderful creatures, unique of their own kind, dredged up from the floors of some unexplored ocean.

The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.

Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?