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A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.
Without work, all life goes rotten. But when work is soulless, life stifles and dies.
A man’s work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.
We used to wonder where war lived, what it was that made it so vile. And now we realize that we know where it lives… inside ourselves.
The myth of unlimited production brings war in its train as inevitably as clouds announce a storm.
How can sincerity be a condition of friendship? A taste for truth at any cost is a passion which spares nothing.
Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object.
The absurd is the essential concept and the first truth.
A taste for truth at any cost is a passion which spares nothing.
To insure the adoration of a theorem for any length of time, faith is not enough, a police force is needed as well.