The artist appeals to that part of our being which is not dependent on wisdom; to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition-and therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty and pain.

One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse.

The artist in his calling of interpreter creates because he must. He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death

Gossip is what no one claims to like, but everybody enjoys.

One must explore deep and believe the incredible to find the new particles of truth floating in an ocean of insignificance.

As to honor - you know - it's a very fine mediaeval inheritance which women never got hold of. It wasn't theirs.

The ocean has the conscienceless temper of a savage autocrat spoiled by much adulation