Language is a machine for making falsehoods.

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

Starting a novel is opening a door on a misty landscape; you can still see very little but you can smell the earth and feel the wind blowing.

There is no triumph of good, and if there were it would not be a triumph of good.

But fantasy kills imagination, pornography is death to art.

All art deals with the absurd and aims at the simple. Good art speaks truth, indeed is truth, perhaps the only truth.

Nothing is more beautifully and acceptably self-assertive than good singing.