All this twaddle, the existence of God, atheism, determinism, liberation, societies, death, etc., are pieces of a chess game called language, and they are amusing only if one does not preoccupy oneself with 'winning or losing this game of chess.

The artist performs only one part of the creative process. The onlooker completes it, and it is the onlooker who has the last word.

The life of an artist is like the life of a monk, a lewd monk if you like, very Rabelaisian. It is an ordination.

I was poking fun at myself most of all.

To all appearances the artist acts like a mediumistic being who, from the labyrinth beyond time and space, seeks his way out to a clearing. If we give the attributes of a medium to the artist, we must then deny him the state of consciousness on the aesthetic plane about what he is doing or why he is doing it. All this decisions in the artistic execution of the work rest with pure intuition and cannot be translated into a self-analysis, spoken or written, or even thought out.

Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another.

I feel shame, not for the wrong things I have done, but for the right things that I have failed to do.