Work is nothing but the slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great images in whose presence [His Or Her] heart first opened.

To live is to hurt others, and through others, to hurt oneself. Cruel earth! How can we manage not to touch anything? To find what ultimate exile?

It is a kind of spiritual snobbery that makes people think they can be happy without money.

Those who lack the courage will always find a philosophy to justify it.

But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a person and life they lead.

When you have once seen the glow of happiness on the face of a beloved person, you know that a man can have no vocation but to awaken that light on the faces surrounding him; and you are torn by the thought of the unhappiness and night you cast, by the mere fact of living, in the hearts you encounter.

To be happy we must not be too concerned with others.

In our wildest aberrations we dream of an equilibrium we have left behind and which we naively expect to find at the end of our errors. Childish presumption which justifies the fact that child-nations, inheriting our follies, are now directing our history.

The innocent is the person who explains nothing.

To write is to become disinterested. There is a certain renunciation in art.