Steden maken me bang. Maar waag je niet te ver buiten hun muren, want dan betreed je het domein van de Vegetatie. Over een afstand van vele kilometer… - Jean-Paul Sartre

For the artist, the color, the bouquet, the tinkling of the spoon on the saucer, are things in the highest degree. He stops at the quality of the sound or the form. He returns to it constantly and is enchanted with it.

INEZ: Prove it. Prove it was no dream. It’s what one does, and nothing else, that shows the stuff one's made of.

GARCIN: I died too soon. I wasn't allowed time to - to do my deeds.

INEZ: One always dies too soon - or too late. And yet one's whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are - your life, and nothing else.

They explain the new by the old — and the old they explain by the older still, like those
historians who turn a Lenin into a Russian Robespierre, and a Robespierre into a French Cromwell: when all is said and done, they have never understood anything at all.