The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from. That is why true artists scorn nothing: they are obliged to understand rather than to judge.

The only real progress lies in learning to be wrong all alone.

Have you no hope at all? And do you really live with the thought that when you die, you die, and nothing remains?" "Yes," I said.

You cannot create experience. You must undergo it.

The myth of unlimited production brings war in its train as inevitably as clouds announce a storm.

In every guilty man, there is some innocence. This makes every absolute condemnation revolting.

It takes time to live. Like any work of art, life needs to be thought about.