An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.

Beauty is worse than wine it intoxicates both the holder and beholder.

The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication: that is why so many bad artists are unable to give it up.

For art to exist for any sort of aesthetic activity to exist a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.

The intoxication of anger like that of the grape shows us to others but hides us from ourselves.