Words fail, there are times when even they fail.

I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.

We all are born mad. Some remain so.

The situation is that of him who is helpless, cannot act, in the event cannot paint, since he is obliged to paint. The act is of him who, helpless, unable to act, acts, in the event paints, since he is obliged to paint.

You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.

To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust