The magic of the craft has opened for me a world in which I shall confront, within two hours, the black dragons and the crowned crests of a coma of blue lightnings, and when night has fallen I, delivered, shall read my course in the starts.

It is in your act that you exist, not in your body. Your act is yourself, and there is no other you.

It is the missed opportunity that counts, and in a love that vainly yearns from behind prison bars you have perchance the love supreme.

You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.

We are prudent people. We are afraid to let go of our petty reality in order to grasp at a great shadow.

Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree.

The flower you single out is a rejection of all other flowers; nevertheless, only on these terms is it beautiful.