It takes time to live. Like any work of art, life needs to be thought about.
If the world were clear, art would not exist.
A work of art is a confession.
A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.
Truly fertile Music, the only kind that will move us, that we shall truly appreciate, will be a Music conducive to Dream, which banishes all reason and analysis. One must not wish first to understand and then to feel. Art does not tolerate Reason.
The aim of art, the aim of a life can only be to increase the sum of freedom and responsibility to be found in every man and in the world. It cannot, under any circumstances, be to reduce or suppress that freedom, even temporarily.
Every authentic work of art is a gift offered to the future.
It's not the struggle that makes us artists, but Art that makes us struggle.
Without freedom, no art; art lives only on the restraints it imposes on itself, and dies of all others.
After all perhaps the greatness of art lies in the perpetual tension between beauty and pain, the love of men and the madness of creation, unbearable solitude and the exhausting crowd, rejection and consent.
...Any authentic creation is a gift to the future.
We have art in order not to die of life.
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.
If it adapts itself to what the majority of our society wants, art will be a meaningless recreation.
In order to be created, a work of art must first make use of the dark forces of the soul
Art and revolt will die only with the last man.
And often he who has chosen the fate of the artist because he felt himself to be different soon realizes that he can maintain neither his art nor his difference unless he admits that he is like the others. The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from.
At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman, and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this very minute lose the illusory meaning with which we had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost paradise . . . that denseness and that strangeness of the world is absurd.
It is impossible to give a clear account of the world, but art can teach us to reproduce it-just as the world reproduces itself in the course of its eternal gyrations. The primordial sea indefatigably repeats the same words and casts up the same astonished beings on the same sea-shore.
To write is to become disinterested. There is a certain renunciation in art.
The work of art is born of the intelligence's refusal to reason the concrete. It marks the triumph of the carnal.
Just as all thought, and primarily that of non-signification, signifies something, so there is no art that has no signification.
Realism should only be the means of expression of religious genius... or, at the other extreme, the artistic expressions of monkeys which are quite satisfied with mere imitation. In fact, art is never realistic though sometimes it is tempted to be. To be really realistic a description would have to be endless.
To think is first of all to create a world (or to limit one's own world, which comes to the same thing).
There is not a single true work of art that has not in the end added to the inner freedom insight and life of each person who has known and loved it.
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