So society has strangled in its asylums all those it wanted to get rid of or protect itself from, because they refused to become its accomplices in certain great nastinesses.

No one has ever written, painted, sculpted, modeled, built, or invented except literally to get out of hell.

The race of prophets is extinct. Europe is becoming set in its ways, slowly embalming itself beneath the wrappings of its borders, its factories, its law-courts and its universities. The frozen Mind cracks between the mineral staves which close upon it.

Without sarcasm I sink into chaos.

If I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself but to put myself back together again.

Don't tire yourself more than need be, even at the price of founding a culture on the fatigue of your bones.

I cannot conceive any work of art as having a separate existence from life itself