We sit on the kitchen exchanging these diabolical outgrowths of overfertile minds.

There are books which we read early in life, which sink into our consciousness and seem to disappear without leaving a trace. And then one day we find, in some summing-up of our life and put attitudes towards experience, that their influence has been enormous.

They courted the face on the screen, the face of translucence, the face of wax on which men found it possible to imprint the image of their fantasy.

The poet is one who is able to keep the fresh vision of the child alive.

The artist is the only one who knows that the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements.

Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.