You see, nothing matters except pleasure - which is the opposite of happiness, its tragic part, I expect.
Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.
I see artists as a great battalion moving through paint, words, music towards cosmological interpretation.
Music was invented to confirm human loneliness.
Life is like a cucumber. One minute it's in your hand, the next it's up you ass.
after all the work of the philosophers on his soul and the doctors on his body, what can we really say we know about a man? That he is, when all is said and done, just a passage for liquids and solids, a pipe of flesh.