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.

One must learn to love, and go through a good deal of suffering to get to it... and the journey is always towards the other soul.

Now the only decent way to get something done is to get it done by somebody who quite likes doing it.

Our civilisation cannot afford to let the censor-moron loose. The censor-moron does not really hate anything but the living and growing human consciousness.

What is the knocking? What is the knocking at the door in the night? It is somebody who wants to do us harm. No, no, it is the three strange angels. Admit them, admit them.

No creature is fully itself till it is, like the dandelion, opened in the bloom of pure relationship to the sun, the entire living cosmos.