But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

Ineluctable modality of the visible; at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read.

I am not likely to die of bashfulness but neither am I prepared to be crucified to attest the perfection of my art. I dislike to hear of any stray heroics on the prowl for me.

He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.

A man's errors are his portals of discovery.

The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.

When a man is born...there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.