As for work, without it, without painstaking work, any writer or artist definitely remains a dilettante; there's no point in waiting for so-called blissful moments, for inspiration; if it comes, so much the better--but you keep working anyway.

A son is like a lopped off branch. As a falcon he comes when he wills and goes where he lists.

Death's an old joke, but each individual encounters it anew.

We sit in the mud... and reach for the stars.

Each individual is more or less dimly aware of his significance, is aware that he's something innately superior, something eternal--and lives, is obligated to live, in the moment and for the moment.

Nothing is worse and more hurtful than a happiness that comes too late.

I was afraid of looking into my heart...afraid of thinking seriously about anything...I did not want to know whether I was loved, and I did not want to admit to myself that I was not loved.