My self . . . is a dramatic ensemble. Here a prophetic ancestor makes his appearance. Here a brutal hero shouts. Here an alcoholic bon vivant argues with a learned professor. Here a lyric muse, chronically love-struck, raises her eyes to heaven. Her papa steps forward, uttering pedantic protests. Here the indulgent uncle intercedes. Here the aunt babbles gossip. Here the maid giggles lasciviously. And I look upon it all with amazement, the sharpened pen in my left hand.

When looking at any significant work of art, remember that a more significant one probably has had to be sacrificed.

We construct and keep on constructing, yet intuition is still a good thing.

An active line on a walk, moving freely, without goal. A walk for a walk's sake.

Art does not reflect what is seen, rather it makes the hidden visible.

Nature is garrulous to the point of confusion, let the artist be truly taciturn.

He has found his style, when he cannot do otherwise.