There never was a war that was not inward; I must fight till I have conquered in myself what causes war.

Below the incandescent stars / below the incandescent fruit, / the strange experience of beauty; / its existence is too much; / it tears one to pieces / and each fresh wave of consciousness / is poison.

Only imagination that towers can reproduce evanescence and render rigidity flexible.

We are suffering from too much sarcasm.

Excess is the common substitute for energy.

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.

A writer is unfair to himself when he is unable to be hard on himself.