It`s raining my soul, it`s raining, but it`s raining dead eyes.
I hate artists who are not of their time.
Joy always came after pain.
The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep nature in subjection.
One can`t carry one`s father`s corpse about everywhere.
Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature`s monotony.
When man wanted to make a machine that would walk he created the wheel, which does not resemble a leg.
Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.
I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.
Now and then it`s good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.
A structure becomes architectural, and not sculptural, when its elements no longer have their justification in nature.