One writes because one has a burning desire to objectify what it is indispensable to one's happiness to express.

I, too, dislike it. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it, after all, a place for the genuine.

The sweet air coming into your house on a fine day, from water etched with waves as formal as the scales on a fish.

Life is energy, and energy is creativity. And even when individuals pass on, the energy is retained in the work of art, locked in it and awaiting release if only someone will take the time and the care to unlock it.

When we think we don't like art it is because it is artificial art.

he who gives quickly gives twice / in nothing so much as in a letter.

You're not free until you've been made captive by supreme belief.