Artists Are The Monks Of The Bourgeois

Reality Is A Prison, Where One Vegetates And Always Will. All The Rest - Thought, Action - Is Just A Pastime, Mental Or Physical. What Counts Then, Is To Come To Grips With Reality. The Rest Can Go.

When Writing Poetry, It Is Not That Produces A Bright Idea, But The Bright Idea That Kindles The Fire Of.

War Makes Men Barbarous Because, To Take Part In It, One Must Harden Oneself Against All Regret, All Appreciation Of Delicacy And Sensitive Values. One Must Live As If Those Values Did Not Exist, And When The War Is Over One Has Lost The Resilience To Return To Those Values.

Life Without Smoking Is Like The Smoke Without The Roast.

You Don't Remember Days, You Remember Moments.