Old age is an insult. It's like being smacked.

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

Now stiff on a pillar with a phallic air nelson stylites in Trafalgar square reminds the British what once they were.

The steward, according to custom, had stopped all the clocks. This, in the language of Narouz, said "Your stay with us is so brief, let us not be reminded of the flight of the hours."

Art like life is an open secret.

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.

Every man is made of clay and diamond, and no woman can nourish both.