Art has the lovely habit of ruining all artistic theories.

I've decided that art is a habit-forming drug. That's all it is, for the artist, for the collector, for anybody connected with it.

Three or four drops of height have nothing to do with savageness.

I have forced myself to contradict myself in order to avoid conforming to my own taste.

This concern which interests us more than anything else: the blurring of the distinction between art and life.

In the last analysis, the artist may shout from all the rooftops that he is a genius; he will have to wait for the verdict of posterity.

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.