Democracy with its semi-civilization sincerely cherishes junk. The artists power should be spiritual. But the power of the majority is material. When these worlds meet occasionally, it is pure coincidence.

I want to be as though new-born, knowing nothing, absolutely nothing about Europe.

Nothing can be rushed. It must grow, it should grow of itself, and if the time ever comes for that work, then so much the better!

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

Light and the rational forms are locked in combat; light sets them into motion, bends what is straight, makes parallels oval, inscribes circles in the intervals, makes the intervals active.

To emphasize only the beautiful seems to me to be like a mathematical system that only concerns itself with positive numbers.

My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will.