In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.
“A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.”
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Man is an idea, and a precious small idea once he turns his back on love.
He who despairs of the human condition is a coward, but he who has hope for it is a fool.