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

To give emphasis only to beauty makes me think of a mathematics that deals with positive numbers only.

The artist of today is more than an improved camera, he is more complex, richer, and wider. He is a creature on the earth and a creature within the whole, that is, a creature on a star among stars.

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

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.

A line is a dot that went for a walk.

I want to be as though newborn. To be almost primitive.