Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.
Prohibitions create the desire they were intended to cure.
Art like life is an open secret.
They say that if you get bored enough with calamity you can learn to laugh.
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.
I am quite alone. I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory.