With a goose-quill and a few sheets of paper, I mock myself of the universe. They say I am the son of a courtesan; it may be so, but I have the heart of a King. I live free, I enjoy myself, I can call myself happy.

I am, as they say, the classic starving artist.

I am a free man. I do not need to copy Petrarca or Boccaccio. My own genius is enough. Let others worry themselves about style, and so cease to be themselves. Without a master, without a model, without a guide, I go to work and earn my living, my well-being and my fame.

If my son is happy, then I am happy.

I am happy that I can challenge myself in various fields.

I can say with full sincerity that I am happy. I'm happy because I'm doing what I love and I'm not selling out.