I could wish for nothing more than to die for a childish dream in which I truly believed.

I could have sworn that the man's eyes were no longer watching his daughter dying in agony, that instead the gorgeous colors of flames and the sight of a woman suffering in them were giving him joy beyond measure.

He felt so lost, he said later, that the familiar studio felt like a haunted valley deep in the mountains, with the smell of rotting leaves, the spray of a waterfall, the sour fumes of fruit stashed away by a monkey; even the dim glow of the master's oil lamp on its tripod looked to him like misty moonlight in the hills.

I could wish for nothing more than to die for a childish dream in which I truly believed.

I have no conscience at all -- least of all an artistic conscience. All I have is nerves.

It is unfortunate for the gods that, unlike us, they cannot commit suicide.

As you can imagine, those who had fallen this far had been so worn down by their tortures in the seven other hells that they no longer had the strength to cry out.