Art Is Science Made Flesh.

The Speed Of A Runaway Horse Counts For Nothing.

In Two Weeks, Despite These Notes, I Shall No Longer Believe In What I Am Experiencing Now. One Must Leave Behind A Trace Of This Journey Which Memory Forgets. One Must, When This Is Impossible, Write Or Draw Without Responding To The Romantic Solicitations Of Pain, Without Enjoying Suffering Like Music, Tieing A Pen To One's Foot If Need Be, Helping The Doctors Who Can Learn Nothing From Laziness.

I Have Not Looked At A Newspaper In Twenty Years; If One Is Brought Into The Room, I Flee. This Is Not Because I Am Indifferent But Because One Cannot Follow Every Road.

The Actual Tragedies Of Life Bear No Relation To One's Preconceived Ideas. In The Event, One Is Always Bewildered By Their Simplicity, Their Grandeur Of Design, And By That Element Of The Bizarre Which Seems Inherent In Them.

In Paris, Everybody Wants To Be An Actor; Nobody Is Content To Be A Spectator.