This is no science, this is art, where equations fall away to elements like resolving chords, and where always prevails a symmetry either explicit or multiplex, but always of a crystalline serenity.

I suspect that the word (art) was invented by second-rate intelligences to describe the incomprehensible activities of their betters.

Beauty compelled admiration and erotic yearning; such was its organic function. But never by itself could it command love.

I haven't sold to the movies. In other words, I haven't gotten any enormous checks yet.

What is peace? Balance three iron skewers tip to tip, one upon the other; at the summit, emplace and egg, so that it too poises static in mid-air, and there you have the condition of peace in this world of men.

Why make plans? The sun might well go out tomorrow.

The life we've been leading couldn't last forever. It's a wonder it lasted as long as it did.