Art has two constant, two unending concerns: It always meditates on death and thus always creates life. All great, genuine art resembles and continues the Revelation of St John.

At the moment of childbirth, every woman has the same aura of isolation, as though she were abandoned, alone.

Our evenings are farewells. Our parties are testaments. So that the secret stream of suffering. May warm the cold of life.

Failure to love is almost like murder.

He realised, more vividly than ever before, that art had two constant, two unending preoccupations: it is always meditating upon death and it is always thereby creating life.

In every generation there has to be some fool who will speak the truth as he sees it.

How wonderful to be alive, he thought. But why does it always hurt?