¿Es el amor el que vuelve estúpidas a las personas o es que sólo los estúpidos se enamoran?
Where there is a true art and genuine virtuosity the artist can paint an incomparable masterpiece without leaving even a trace of his identity.
The beauty and mystery of this world only emerges through affection, attention, interest and compassion . . . open your eyes wide and actually see this world by attending to its colors, details and irony.
Books, which we mistake for consolation, only add depth to our sorrow.
The drinking of coffee is an absolute sin! Our Glorious Prophet did not partake of coffee because he knew it dulled the intellect, caused ulcers, hernia and sterility; he understood that coffee was nothing but the Devil's ruse.
Let me first state forthright that contrary to what we've often read in books and heard from preachers, when you are a woman, you don't feel like the Devil.
Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen.
...it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising out memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rar...
Maybe you've understood by now that for men like myself, that is, melancholy men for whom love, agony, happiness and misery are just excuses for maintaining eternal loneliness, life offers neither great joy nor great sadness.
Tell me then, does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love?
In the cities of the European Franks, women roam about exposing not only their faces, but also their brightly shining hair (after their necks, their most attractive feature), their arms, their beautiful throats, and even, if what Ive heard is true, a...
Contrary to what is commonly believed, all murderers are men of extreme faith rather than unbelievers.
Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight.
To know is to remember that you've seen.To see is to know without remembering. Thus painting is remembering the blackness.
In actuality, we don't look for smiles in pictures of bliss, but rather, for the happiness in life itself. Painters know this, but this is preciously what they cannot depict. That's why they substitute the joy of seeing for the joy of life.
I don't want to be a tree; I want to be its meaning.
Yet does illustrating in a new way signify a new way of seeing?
