The day we stop resisting our instincts, we'll have learned how to live.

With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.

At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy.

Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain.

The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand.

Theatre is poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair

The day hunger disappears, the world will see the greatest spiritual explosion humanity has ever seen.