Art should be like a holiday: something to give a man the opportunity to see things differently and to change his point of view.

Satire must not be a kind of superfluous ill will, but ill will from a higher point of view. Ridiculous man, divine God. Or else, hatred against the bogged-down vileness of average man as against the possible heights that humanity might attain.

A single day is enough to make us a little larger or, another time, a little smaller.

Everything vanishes round me and good works rise from me of their own accord.

My mirror probes down to the heart. I write words on the forehead and around the corners of the mouth. My human faces are truer than the real ones.

Everything vanishes around me, and works are born as if out of the void. Ripe, graphic fruits fall off. My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will.

All art is a memory of age-old things, dark things, whose fragments live on in the artist.