The Smell Of Opium Is The Least

Artists Can No More Speak About Their Work, Than Plants Can Speak About Horticulture.

Without Opium, Plans, Marriages And Journeys Appear To Me Just As Foolish As If Someone Falling Out Of A Window Were To Hope To Make Friends With The Occupants Of The Room Before Which He Passes.

Here I Am Trying To Live, Or Rather, I Am Trying To Teach The Death Within Me How To Live.

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.

We Must Believe In Luck. For How Else Can We Explain The Success Of Those We Don't Like?