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.

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

Art doesn't reflect what we see; it makes us see.

A line comes into being. It goes out for a walk, so to speak, aimlessly for the sake of the walk.

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

From the root, the sap rises up into the artist, flows through him, flows to his eye. Overwhelmed and activated by the force of the current, he conveys his vision into his work. And yet, standing at his appointed place as the trunk of the tree, he does nothing other than gather and pass on what rises from the depths. He neither serves nor commands he transmits. His position is humble. And the beauty at the crown is not his own; it has merely passed through him.

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.