Art is man determined to die sane.

The best reason for putting anything down on paper is that one may then change it.

One may lack words to express the impact of beauty but no one who has felt it remains untouched. It is renewal, enlargement, intensification. The parks preserve it permanently in the inheritance of the American citizens.

Something can be done with people who put pickled onions in: strangulation seems best.

The trouble with Reason is that it becomes meaningless at the exact point where it refuses to act.

Art is the terms of an armistice signed with fate.

This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affectations glow and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn.