The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

We are all prisoners of our desires, and the key to our cell is in our own hands.

The strength of steel is matched only by the strength of the people who make it.

I have made all the calculations; fate will do the rest.

The real discovery is the one that makes me capable of stopping doing philosophy when I want to.