A man is infinitely more complicated than his thoughts.

Latent in every man is a venom of amazing bitterness, a black resentment; something that curses and loathes life, a feeling of being trapped, of having trusted and been fooled, of being helpless prey to impotent rage, blind surrender, the victim of a savage, ruthless power that gives and takes away, enlists a man, drops him, promises and betrays, and -crowning injury- inflicts on him the humiliation of feeling sorry for himself.

An artist never really finishes his work, he merely abandons it.

Sometimes I think and other times I am.

One should be light like a bird, and not like a feather.

Everything changes but the avant-garde.

Two dangers constantly threaten the world: order and disorder.