An artist earns the right to call himself a creator only when he admits to himself that he is but an instrument.

To live without killing is a thought which could electrify the world, if men were only capable of staying awake long enough to let the idea soak in.

The truly great writer does not want to write: he wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination. The first quivering word he puts to paper is the word of the wounded angel: pain.

One has to be a lowbrow, a bit of a murderer, to be a politician, ready and willing to see people sacrificed, slaughtered, for the sake of an idea, whether a good one or a bad one.

Art is only a means to life, the life more abundant. It merely points the way.

Once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos.

Through endless night the earth whirls toward a creation unknown.