The machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of men.

The flattery of posterity is not worth much more than contemporary flattery, which is worth nothing.

This felicitous supposition declared that there is only one Individual, and that this indivisible Individual is every one of the separate beings in the universe, and that these beings are the instruments and masks of divinity itself.

For myth is at the beginning of literature, and also at its end.

I have known uncertainty: a state unknown to the Greeks.

What a writer wants to do is not what he does.

I know that when I think of myself as being utterly worn out, when I think that somehow I have nothing more to write, then something is happening within me. And, in due course, it bubbles up; it comes to the surface, and then I do my best to listen. But there's nothing mystical about all this. I suppose all writers do the same.