“The Kafka paradox: art depends on truth, but truth, being indivisable, cannot know itself: to tell the truth is to lie. Thus the writer is the truth, and yet when he speaks he lies.”

All language is but a poor translation.

So eager are our people to obliterate the present.

I can love only what I can place so high above me that I cannot reach it.

It is not necessary to accept everything as true, one must only accept it as necessary.’ ‘A melancholy conclusion,’ said K. ‘It turns lying into a universal principle.

Evil is whatever distracts.

He is terribly afraid of dying because he hasn’t yet lived.

Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.

What if I slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense.

Written kisses don’t reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts.

Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.

You misinterpret everything, even the silence.

May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.

I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.

Just think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.

Believing in progress does not mean believing that any progress has yet been made.

He who would do good to another must do it in Minute Particulars; General Good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocrite and flatterer: For Art and Science cannot exist but in minutely organized Particulars.

When you’re young and everything dramatic is exciting, you start to believe that hype that, in order to be an artist, you have to suffer. I’ve graduated from that school.

You don’t know how much artists go through to make it look so easy. It’s all in the practice.

Dramatic art in her opinion is knowing how to fill a sweater.

The out-of-work actor wears out more than shoe leather. The very sensibilities that make him an artist are shattered by the disregard he is shown as a human being.

To invoke solely the weaker arguments and yet triumph is an art worth more than a hundred thousand drachmae.

Art and psychoanalisis give shape and meaning to life and that’s why we adore them. However, life as it is lived has no shape nor meaning, and that’s what I am experiencing right now.

Art should never be an answer but a question.