As we live our precarious lives on the brink of the void, constantly coming closer to a state of nonbeing, we are all too often aware of our fragitlity.

The priesthood is a marriage. People often start by falling in love, and they go on for years without realizing that love must change into some other love which is so unlike it that it can hardly be recognized as love at all.

Art is the final cunning of the human soul which would rather do anything than face the gods.

A middling talent makes for a more serene life.

The very madness of the scheme protects it.

Art is a kind of artificial memory and the pain which attends all serious art is a sense of that factitiousness.

Happiness is a matter of one's most ordinary everyday mode of consciousness being busy and lively and unconcerned with self.