"This - is now my way - where is yours"? Thus did I answer those who asked me "the way". For the way - it does not exist!

If you want me to believe in your redeemer, you are going to have to look a lot more redeemed.

No artist tolerates reality.

Man is no longer an artist, he has become a work of art.

We only hear questions that we are able to answer.

Those with very loud voices in their throats are nearly incapable of thinking subtle thoughts.

I am afraid that old women are more skeptical in their most secret heart of hearts than any man: they believe in the superficiality of existence as in its essence, and all virtue and profundity is to them merely a veil over this "truth," a most welcome veil over a pudendum--and so a matter of decency and modesty, and nothing else.