I also believe that few people remain completely untouched by the thought that instead of the life they lead there might also be another, where all actions proceed from a very personal state of excitement. Where actions have meanings, not just causes. And where a person, to use a trivial word, is happy, and not just nervously tormenting himself.

Anything that endures over time sacrifices its ability to make an impression.

But how do I get to having to write a book?... It was a mother who bore me, not an inkwell!

All still lifes are actually paintings of the world on the sixth day of creation, when God and the world were alone together, without man!

... there is no such thing as a rational world and a separate irrational world, but only one world containing both.

Hardly anyone still reads nowadays. People make use of the writer only in order to work off their own excess energy on him in a perverse manner, in the form of agreement or disagreement.

Is not art a tool we employ to peel the kitsch off life? Layer by layer art strips life bare. The more abstract it gets, the more transparent the air is. Can it be that the farther it is removed from life, the clearer art becomes?