Art like life is an open secret.

Truth is a matter of direct apprehension-you can't climb a ladder of mental concepts to it.

It’s only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness.

What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?

Let us define 'man' as a poet perpetually conspiring against himself.

Lovers can find nothing to say to each other that has not been said and unsaid a thousand times over. Kisses were invented to translate such nothings into wounds

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