But my memories are like a fire in winter—whenever I'm cold I can warm my hands at them. —Ditta

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

The discipline of creation, be it to paint, compose, write, is an effort towards wholeness.

The naked intellect is an extraordinarily inaccurate instrument.

There was no light. The darkness was deep and there was no dazzle.

I saw Eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright, And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years, Driven by the spheres, Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world And all her train were hurled.

... nothing loved is ever lost or perished.