I never forgive attacks on my work.

The truth is that I am enslaved... in one vast love affair with 70 children.

Love has the quality of informing almost everything - even one's work.

I see the mind of the five-year-old as a volcano with two vents: destructiveness and creativeness.

A comforting acquaintance, hope, a contagious thing like spring, inebriating like lager.

It is not so much the content of what one says as the way in which one says it. However important the thing you say, what's the good of it if not heard or, being heard, not felt?

Self-forgetfulness in creativity can lead to self-transcendence.