My great religion is a belief in the blood, the flesh, as being wiser than the intellect. We can go wrong in our minds. But what our blood feels and believes and says, is always true. The intellect is only a bit and a bridle.

This is the very worst wickedness, that we refuse to acknowledge the passionate evil that is in us. This makes us secret and rotten.

While we live, let us live.

I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who wants what luck would bring? I don't.

The acrid scents of autumn, Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear

An artist is only an ordinary man with a greater potentiality--same stuff, same make up, only more force. And the strong driving force usually finds his weak spot, and he goes cranked, or goes under.

For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive.