I would willingly stand at street corners, hat in hand, begging passerby to drop their unused minutes into it.

It was a morning in early summer. A silver haze shimmered and trembled over the lime trees. The air was laden with their fragrance. The temperature was like a caress. I remember - I need not recall - that I climbed up a tree stump and felt suddenly immersed in Itness. I did not call it by that name. I had no need for words. It and I were one.

From childhood on I have had the dream of life lived as a sacrament... the dream implied taking life ritually as something holy.

You can parody and make fun of almost anything, but that does not turn the universe into a caricature.

Art is mind and heart and touch as much and more than it is mere instrument, technique - without which however it cannot exist at all.

Genius is the capacity for productive reaction against one's training.

One can repent even of having repented.