An artist has been defined as a neurotic who continually cures himself with his art.

By means of art we are sometimes sent-dimly, briefly-revelations unattainable by reason.

Human nature is full of riddles and contradictions; its very complexity engenders art-and by art I mean the search for something more than simple linear formulations, flat solutions, oversimplified explanations.

"... It's not what but how that matters in art." K-123 jumped up and banged his fist on the table. "No! Your how can go to hell if it doesn't raise the right feelings in me!"

The task of the artist is to sense more keenly than others the harmony of the world, the beauty and the outrage of what man has done to it, and poignantly to let people know.

Too much art was no art at all. Like candy instead of bread!

We will die, but art will remain.

Who has the skill to make a narrow, obstinate human being aware of others' far-off grief and joy, to make him understand dimensions and delusions he himself has never lived through? Propaganda, coercion, and scientific proofs are powerless. But happily, in our world there is a way. It is art, and it is literature.

Who will dare say he has defined art?

Interpretation is the revenge of the intellect upon art.