One of the reasons why so few of us ever act, instead of react, is because we are continually stifling our deepest impulses.

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

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.

To make living itself an art, that is the goal.

He is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing (by writing) is to inoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment.

The enchanting, and sometimes terrifying, thing is that the world can be so many things to so many different souls. That it can be, and is, all these things at once and the same time.

The Englishman, be it noted, seldom resorts to violence; when he is sufficiently goaded he simply opens up, like the oyster, and devours his adversary.