Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.

History is the myth, the true myth, of man's fall made manifest in time.

The world dies over and over again, but the skeleton always gets up and walks.

The monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of this dung heap, but that, for some reason or other, they should want roses.

The waking mind, you see, is the least serviceable in the arts.

I see myself forever and ever as the ridiculous man, the lonely soul, the wanderer, the restless frustrated artist, the man in love with love, always in search of the absolute, always seeking the unattainable

The City of New York is like an enormous citadel, a modern Carcassonne. Walking between the magnificent skyscrapers one feels the presence on the fringe of a howling, raging mob, a mob with empty bellies, a mob unshaven and in rags.