Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.

To insist on purity is to baptize instinct, to humanize art, and to deify personality.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

Joy always came after pain.

Joy came always after pain.

I don't want to work. I want to smoke.

Without poets, without artists... everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever. Poets and artists together determine the features of their age, and the future meekly conforms to their edit.