It is the powerful who know how to honour, it is their art, their domain for invention.

Along the journey we commonly forget its goal. Almost every vocation is chosen and entered upon as a means to a purpose but is ultimately continued as a final purpose in itself. Forgetting our objectives is the most frequent stupidity in which we indulge ourselves.

Insects sting, not from malice, but because they want to live. It is the same with critics; they desire our blood not our pain.

Of all writings I love only that which is written with blood. Write with blood: and you will discover that blood is spirit.

That is an artist as I would have an artist be, modest in his needs: he really wants only two things, his bread and his art--panemet Circen.

Man does not strive for happiness; only the Englishman does that.

I know my fate. One day my name will be associated with the memory of something tremendous — a crisis without equal on earth, the most profound collision of conscience, a decision that was conjured up against everything that had been believed, demanded, hallowed so far. I am no man, I am dynamite.