They say that if you get bored enough with calamity you can learn to laugh.

Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will-whatever we may think.

It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.

Somewhere in the heart of experience there is an order and a coherence which we might purprise if we were attentive enough, loving enough, or patient enough.

A diary is the last place to go if you wish to seek the truth about a person. Nobody dares to make the final confession to themselves on paper: or at least, not about love.

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

The richest love is that which submits to the arbitration of time.