And every true artist is the salvation of every other. But only artists produce for each other the world that is fit to live in.

It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if se adored him too much, then she would lose herself, become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it.

I like Australia less and less. The hateful newness, the democratic conceit, every man a little pope of perfection.

Why has mankind had such a craving to be imposed upon? Why this lust after imposing creeds, imposing deeds, imposing buildings, imposing language, imposing works of art? The thing becomes an imposition and a weariness at last. Give us things that are alive and flexible, which won't last too long and become an obstruction and a weariness. Even Michelangelo becomes at last a lump and a burden and a bore. It is so hard to see past him.

What the eye doesn't see and the mind doesn't know, doesn't exist.

Sleep seems to hammer out for me the logical conclusions of my vague days, and offer them to me as dreams.

The sense of wonder, that is our sixth sense.