It is ... through the world of the imagination which takes us beyond the restrictions of provable fact, that we touch the hem of truth.

Qui plussait, plus se tait. French, you know. The more a man knows, the less he talks.

A life lived in chaos is an impossibility.

Sometimes when we aren't looking, the holiness comes breaking through like a rainbow.

In your language you have a form of poetry called the sonnet…There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That’s a very strict rhythm or meter…And each line has to end with a rigid pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet…But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants…You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.

We have much to be judged on when he comes, slums and battlefields and insane asylums, but these are the symptoms of our illness and the result of our failures in love.

Thou cannot harm a butterfly, without troubling a star.