Every human life contains a potential, if that potential is not fulfilled, then that life was wasted.

Becoming conscious is of course a sacrilege against nature; it is as though you had robbed the unconscious of something.

It is my mind, with its store of images, that gives the world color and sound; and that supremely real and rational certainty which I can "experience" is, in its most simple form, an exceedingly complicated structure of mental images. Thus there is, in a certain sense, nothing that is directly experienced except the mind itself. Everything is mediated through the mind, translated, filtered, allegorized, twisted, even falsified by it. We are . . . enveloped in a cloud of changing and endlessly shifting images.

In all earnestness I asked myself what kind of world I had stumbled into.

Warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child.

Art is a kind of innate drive that seizes a human being and makes him its instrument. To perform this difficult office it is sometimes necessary for him to sacrifice happiness and everything that makes life worth living for the ordinary human being.

A true symbol appears only when there is a need to express what thought cannot think or what is only divined or felt.