The clock ticked with empty urgency, as though trying to catch up with the time. In the street a siren howled.

If social protest is antithetical to art, what then shall we make of Goya, Dickens, and Twain?

Having tried to give pattern to the chaos which lives within the pattern of your certainties, I must come out, I must emerge.

Some people are your relatives but others are your ancestors, and you choose the ones you want to have as ancestors. You create yourself out of those values.

Perhaps to lose a sense of where you are implies the danger of losing a sense of who you are.

Our task, then always, is to challenge the apparent forms of reality-that is, the fixed manner and values of the few, and to struggle with it until it reveals its mad, vari-implicated chaos, its false face, and so on until it surrenders its insight, its truth.

I am nobody but myself.