Let there be an end ... of all this welter of pity, which is only self-pity reflected onto some obvious surface.

Mankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the cosmos.

Beauty is a mystery. You can neither eat it nor make flannel out of it.

The Moon is a white strange world, great, white, soft-seeming globe in the night sky, and what she actually communicates to me across space I shall never fully know. But the Moon that pulls the tides, and the Moon that controls the menstrual periods of women, and the Moon that touches the lunatics, she is not the mere dead lump of the astronomist. . . . When we describe the Moon as dead, we are describing the deadness in ourselves. When we find space so hideously void, we are describing our own unbearable emptiness.

Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas!

Unless one decorates one's house for oneself alone, best leave it bare, for other people are walleyed.

We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.