They were painfully clean. But inwardly they stank. Never once had they opened the door which leads to the soul; never once did they dream of taking a blind leap into the dark.

What does it matter how one comes by the truth so long as one pounces upon it and lives by it?

At Epidaurus, in the stillness, in the great peace that came over me, I heard the heart of the world beat. I know what the cure is: it is to give up, to relinquish, to surrender, so that our little hearts may beat in unison with the great heart of the world.

New York has a trip-hammer vitality which drives you insane with restlessness if you have no inner stabilizer.

For the artist to attach himself to his work, or identify himself with it, is suicidal.

Art is only a means to life, to the life more abundant. It is not in itself the life more abundant. It merely points the way, something which is overlooked not only by the public, but very often by the artist himself. In becoming an end it defeats itself.

By choosing to live above the ordinary level we create extraordinary problems for ourselves.