The perfect human being is uninteresting.

The happy ending of the fairy tale, the myth, and the divine comedy of the soul, is to be read, not as a contradiction, but as a transcendence of the universal tragedy of man. The objective world remains what it was, but, because of a shift of emphasis within the subject, is beheld as though transformed. Where formerly life and death contended, now enduring being is made manifest-as indifferent to the accidents of time as water boiling in a pot is to the destiny of a bubble, or as the cosmos to the appearance and disappearance of a galaxy of stars.

Poets are simply those who have made a profession and a lifestyle of being in touch with their bliss.

The Deadheads are doing the dance of life and this I would say is the answer to the atom bomb.

If you want to see what a society really believes in, look at what the biggest buildings on the horizon are dedicated to.

The seizure of passionate love can be, in such a context, only illicit, breaking in upon the order of one's dutiful life in virtue as a devastating storm.

Both the artist and the lover know that perfection is not loveable. It is the clumsiness of a fault that makes a person lovable.