Strangely, I heard a stranger say, I am with you.

Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.

The point is to live everything.

You must give birth to your images. They are the future waiting to be born. Fear not the strangeness you feel. The future must enter you long before it happens. Just wait for the birth, for the the hour of the new clarity.

May I strike my heart's keys clearly, and may none fail because of slack, uncertain, or fraying strings. May the tears that stream down my face make me more radiant: may my hidden weeping bloom.... How we waste our afflictions!... [T]hey're really our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one of the seasons of the clandestine year—; not only a season—: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.

Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings.

I live not in dreams but in contemplation of a reality that is perhaps the future.