Photography invites one to give up any attempt to delineate such things as can delineate themselves.

The only truths which are universal are those gross enough to be thought so.

Poetry is to prose as dancing is to walking.

His heart is a desert island.... The whole scope, the whole energy of his mind surround and protect him; his depths isolate him and guard him against the truth. He flatters himself that he is entirely alone there.... Patience, dear lady. Perhaps, one day, he will discover some footprint on the sand.... What holy and happy terror, what salutary fright, once he recognizes in that pure sign of grace that his island is mysteriously inhabited!

Books have the same enemies as people: fire, humidity, animals, weather, and their own content.

At times I think and at times I am.

Serious people have few ideas. People with ideas are never serious.