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.

You have to write a million words before you find your voice as a writer.

Every man is working out his destiny in his own way and nobody can be of any help except by being kind, generous, and patient.

The poet speaks adequately only when he speaks somewhat wildly... not with intellect alone, but with intellect inebriated by nectar.

We live at the edge of the miraculous.

What have we to offer the world beside the superabundant loot which we recklessly plunder from the earth under the maniacal delusion that this insane activity represents progress and enlightenment?

Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy.