“Lying is the only art form that the public sanctions and instinctively prefers to reality.”

Nothing ever gets anywhere. The earth keeps turning round and gets nowhere. The moment is the only thing that counts.

The eyes of the dead are closed gently; we also have to open gently the eyes of the living.

After you have written a thing and you reread it, there is always the temptation to fix it up, to improve it, to remove its poison, blunt its sting.

It is excruciating to be an unbeliever with a spirit that is deeply religious.

I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.

Youth is certain what it rejects before it knows what it will accept.

Film will only became an art when its materials are as inexpensive as pencil and paper.

Tact in audacity is knowing how far you can go without going too far.

I have not looked at a newspaper in twenty years; if one is brought into the room, I flee. This is not because I am indifferent but because one cannot follow every road.

Appreciation of art is a moral erection, otherwise mere dilettantism.

Silence moves faster when it’s going backward.

French people are Italian people in a bad mood.

The poet, by composing poems, uses a language that is neither dead nor living, that few people speak, and few people understand We are the servants of an unknown force that lives within us, manipulates us, and dictates this language to us.

The joy of the young is to disobey.

All good music resembles something. Good music stirs by its mysterious resemblance to the objects and feelings which motivated it.

Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me how to live.

In art, it is hard to say anything as good as saying nothing.

Out of the cacophony of random suffering and chaos that can mark human life, the life artist sees or creates a symphony of meaning and order.

The more I write about us, the more our love feels like art.

Some thunders are meant to mould your heart into art.

Art is what keeps humans, human.

No arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death; and the life of man solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.

Art speaks to me through you but words have no ears.

An hopeful soul is an art of miracles.