Who invented the human heart, I wonder? Tell me, and then show me the place where he was hanged.

For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential - the imagination.

Art—the meaning of the pattern of our common actions in reality. The cloth-of-gold that hides behind the sackcloth of reality, forced out by the pain of human memory.

Very few people realise that sex is a psychic and not a physical act. The clumsy coupling of human beings is simply a biological paraphrase of this truth - a primitive method of introducing minds to each other, engaging them. But most people are stuck in the physical aspect, unaware of the poetic rapport which it so clumsily tries to teach.

Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?

How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.

I suppose the secret of his success is in his tremendous idleness which almost approaches the supernatural.