I discovered in nature the non utilitarian delights that I sought in art. Both were a form of magic, both were a game of intricate enchantment and deception.

To play safe, I prefer to accept only one type of power: the power of art over trash, the triumph of magic over the brute

Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.

To play safe, I prefer to accept only one type of power: the power of art over trash, the triumph of magic over the brute.

I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness―in a landscape selected at random―is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern―to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal.

A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual.