Revolution is everywhere, in everything. There is no final revolution, no final number.
Only lifeless mechanisms move along faultlessly straight lines and compass circles. In art the surest way to destroy is to canonize one given form and one philosophy: that which is canonized quickly dies of obesity, of entropy.
To an artist, creating an image means being in love with it.
The myth about the angel who rebelled against his Lord is the most beautiful of all myths, the proudest, the most revolutionary, the most immortal of them all.
I’ve read and heard a lot of unbelievable stuff about those times when people lived in freedom – that is, in disorganized wildness.
Knowledge! What does that mean? Your knowledge is nothing but cowardice. No, really, that’s all it is. You just want to put a little wall around infinity. And you’re afraid to look on the other side of that wall.
All women are lips, nothing but lips.
The mighty power of logic cleanses all it touches.
The knife is the most durable, immortal, the most genius thing that man created. The knife was the guillotine; the knife is the universal means of solving all knots; and along the blade of a knife lies the path of paradox – the single most worthy path of the fearless mind.
Her smile was a bite, and I was its target.
Here I saw, with my own eyes, that laughter was the most terrible weapon: you can kill anything with laughter – even murder itself.
Explosions are not comfortable.
The most agonising thing is to drop doubt into a man about his being a reality, three-dimensional – and not some other kind of reality.
And why do you think that foolishness is bad? If human foolishness had been as carefully nurtured and cultivated as intelligence has been for centuries, perhaps it would have turned into something extremely precious.
What makes you think that nonsense is bad? If they’d nurtured and cared for human nonsense over the ages the way they did intelligence, it might have turned into something of special value.
Yesterday, there was a Tzar and there were slaves. Today, there is no Tzar, but the slaves are still here. Tomorrow there will be only Tzars. We walk forward in the name of the free man of tomorrow, the Tzar of tomorrow. We have gone through the epoch when the masses were oppressed. We are now going through the epoch when the individual is oppressed in the name of the masses.
Who knows who you are... A person is a novel: you don’t know how it will end until the very last page. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be worth reading to the very end...
They say there is a kind of flower that blooms only once a century, Then couldn’t there be one that flowers only once every thousand years – or once every ten thousand years? Maybe there are and we just don’t know it because today is itself that once-in-a-thousand-year moment.
Imagine yourself standing on a shore: waves rhythmically rising, rising, and then suddenly they stay there, they set, they freeze.
Who knows who you really are? A person is like a novel: Up to the very last page you don’t know how it’s going to end. Otherwise, there’d be no point in reading...