The runner stopped dead, lost his balance, froze in one of those violent attitudes in which the photographers petrify living reality.
Mirrors would do well to reflect a little more before sending back images.
The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
one should always talk well about oneself! The word spreads around and in the end, noone remembers where it started
Do not take up cause against the inaccuracies printed about you. They are your protection.
The Louvre is a morgue; you go there to identify your friends.
Statues to great men are made of the stones thrown at them in their lifetime.
Artists can no more speak about their work, than plants can speak about horticulture.
One sits down first; one thinks afterwards.
Good music resembles something. It resembles the composer.
All spiritual journeys are martyrdoms
What uniform can I wear to hide my heavy heart? It is too heavy. It will always show. Jacques felt himself growing gloomy again. He was well aware that to live on earth a man must follow its fashions, and hearts were no longer worn.
Watch yourself all your life in a mirror and you'll see Death at work like bees in a glass hive.
The joy of youth is to disobey; but the trouble is that there are no longer any orders.
Art is science made flesh.
Alas! I do not believe that inspiration falls from heaven. think it rather the result of a profound indolence.
The composer opens the cage door for arithmetic, the draftsman gives geometry its freedom.
He has the manner of a giant with the look of a child, a lazy activeness, a mad wisdom, a solitude encompassing the world.
The art of genius is knowing how far out is too far.
What is history after all? History is facts which become lies in the end.
To be audacious with tact, you have to know to what point you can go too far.
The ultimate politeness in art consists of speaking only to those who are able to uncover and measure its relationships. Anything else is symbolic, and symbolism is merely transcendental imagery.
What is style? For many people, a very complicated way of saying very simple things. According to us, a very simple way of saying very complicated things.
How our old friend [Michelangelo] of the Sistine would have loved to photograph his workers, perched on the fragile planks. Dali was right to say Leonardo only worked from photographs.
In exiling myself I am not exiling a monster, but a man whom society will not allow to live, since it considers one of the mysterious cogs in God's masterpiece to be a mistake.
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