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

I am just a refugee from the long slow toothache of English life. It is terrible to love life so much you can hardly breathe!

A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.

I see artists as a great battalion moving through paint, words, music towards cosmological interpretation.

Religion is simply art bastardized out of all recognition.

Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.

It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.