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

At the bottom of every frozen heart there is a drop or two of love―just enough to feed the birds.

The blind lead the blind. It's the democratic way.

If any man dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, I think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the pieces, the atoms, the indestructible elements that have gone to make up the world.

Who wants to be a hundred? What's the point of it? A short life and a merry one is far better than a long one sustained by fear, caution, and perpetual medical surveillance.

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

Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life.