I know the outer world as well as you do, and I judge it. You know nothing of my inner world, and yet you presume to judge that world.

The creation by word-power of something out of nothing--what is that but magic? And, may I add, what is that but literature?

The lion will lay down with the lamb...but every morning they'll have to provide a new lamb. Maybe this world is another planet's hell.

The condition of being forgiven is self-abandonment. The proud man prefers self-reproach, however painful --because the reproached self isn't abandoned; it remains intact.

Universal happiness keeps the wheels steadily turning, truth and beauty can't.

But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.

All that happens means something; nothing you do is ever insignificant.