Oh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was made personal, merely personal feeling. This is what is the matter with us: we are bleeding at the roots because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars. Love has become a grinning mockery because, poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the Tree of Life and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilized vase on the table.

But then peace, peace! I am so mistrustful of it: so much afraid that it means a sort of weakness and giving in.

All that we know is nothing, we are merely crammed wastepaper baskets, unless we are in touch with that which laughs at all our knowing.

Since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art -- or almost the only stuff.

The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.

We are so conceited and so unproud.

And besides, look at elder flowers and bluebells-they are a sign that pure creation takes place - even the butterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage -it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings.It is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.