I speak for an art ... weary of its puny exploits, weary of pretending to be able, of being able, of doing a little better the same old thing, of going a little further along a dreary road.

No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.