It is so much more difficult to live with one's body than with one's soul. One's body is so much more exacting: what it won't have it won't have, and nothing can make bitter into sweet.

Every profound new movement makes a great swing also backwards to some older, half-forgotten way of consciousness.

In America the chief accusation seems to be one of "Eroticism." This is odd, rather puzzling to my mind. Which Eros? Eros of the jaunty "amours," or Eros of the sacred mysteries? And if the latter, why accuse, why not respect, even venerate?

The Spanish wine, my God, it is foul, catpiss is champagne compared, this is the sulphurous urination of some aged horse.

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.

Only this shimmeriness is the real living. The shape is a dead crust. The shimmer is inside really.

Freedom is a very great reality, but it means above all things, freedom from lies.