The struggle to emerge out of the past, clean of memories; the inadequacy of our hearts to cut life into separate and final portions; the pain of this constant ambivalence and interrelation of emotions; the hunger for frontiers against which we might learn as upon closed doors before we proceed forward; the struggle against diffusion, new beginnings, against finality in acts without finality or end, in our cursedly repercussive being.

We see things the way we are, not the way they are.

The softness of the summer day like an ermine paw.

Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.

We cannot cure the evils of politics with politics.

But the artist persists because he has the will to create, and this is the magic power which can transform and transfigure and transpose and which will ultimately be transmitted to others.

Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate. I hate murderously.