Has anyone...any distinct notion of what poets of a stronger age understood by the word inspiration? ... There is an ecstasy such that the immese strain of it is sometimes relaxed by a flood of tears, along with which one's steps either rush or involuntarily lag, alternately. There is the feeling that one is completely out of hand, with the very distinct consciousness of an endless number of fine thrills and quiverings to the very toes... Everything happens quite involuntarily, as if in a tempestuous outburst of freedom, of absoluteness, of power and divinity.

Death is close enough at hand so we do not need to be afraid of life.

To the mediocre, mediocrity is a form of happiness.

When art dresses itself in the most worn-out material it is most easily recognized as art.

Having a talent is not enough: one must also have your permission to have it--right, my friends?

A philosophical mythology lies concealed in language, which breaks out again at every moment, no matter how cautious we may be.

My abyss speaks, I have turned my ultimate depth inside out into the light.