Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?
I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.
Words, the acid-bath of words.
He loved the desert because there the wind blew out one’s footsteps like candle flames.
Any concentration of the will displaces life and gives it bias in motion. Reality, he believed, was always trying to copy the imagination of man, from which it derived.
He hablado de la inutilidad del arte, pero no he dicho la verdad sobre el consuelo que procura.
God did not create us, nor did He wish us to be created. We are the work of a lesser deity, a demiurge, who wrongly believed himself to be God.
The richest love is that which submits to the arbitration of time.
For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential – the imagination.
Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection.
Music is only love looking for words.
Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.