Every time we walk along a beach some ancient urge disturbs us so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war.

It has been said that great art is the night thought of man. It may emerge without warning from the soundless depths of the unconscious, just as supernovas may blaze up suddenly in the farther reaches of void space.

God knows how many things a man misses by becoming smug and assuming that matters will take their own course.

You think that way as you begin to get grayer and you see pretty plainly that the game is not going to end as you planned.

Every man contains within himself a ghost continent.

I am what I am and cannot be otherwise because of the shadows.

The great artist, whether he be musician, painter, or poet, is known for this absolute unexpectedness.