The upshot was, my paintings must burn that English artists might finally learn.

The living self has one purpose only: to come into its own fullness of being, as a tree comes into full blossom, or a bird into spring beauty, or a tiger into lustre.

Never trust the artist. Trust the tale. The proper function of the critic is to save the tale from the artist who created it.

It is quite true, as some poets said, that the God who created man must have had a sinister sense of humor, creating him a reasonable being, yet forcing him to take this ridiculous posture, and driving him with blind craving for this ridiculous performance.

Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.

Money is our madness, our vast collective madness.

What is pornography to one man is the laughter of genius to another.