I wanted to feel the blood running back into my veins, even at the cost of annihilation. I wanted to shake the stone and light out of my system. I wanted the dark fecundity of nature, the deep well of the womb, silence, or else the lapping of the black waters of death. I wanted to be that night which the remorseless eye illuminated, a night diapered with stars and trailing comets. To be of night so frighteningly silent, so utterly incomprehensible and eloquent at the same time. Never more to speak or to listen or to think.

You start out with the sublime and you end up in an alley jerking away for dear life.

The ordinary man is involved in action, the hero acts. An immense difference.

The light of Greece opened my eyes, penetrated my pores, expanded my whole being.

When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written.

There are lone figures armed only with ideas, sometimes with just one idea, who blast away whole epochs in which we are enwrapped like mummies. Some are powerful enough to resurrect the dead. Some steal on us unawares and put a spell over us which it takes centuries to throw off. Some put a curse on us, for our st idity and inertia, and then it seems as if God himself were unable to lift it.

You can travel fifty thousand miles in America without once tasting a piece of good bread.