Art is not a luxury, but a necessity.

What is art? It is not decoration. It is the re-living of experience.

International relationships are preordained to be clumsy gestures based on imperfect knowledge.

Where there is real love one wants to go to church first.

The childhood of the individual and the race is full of fears, and panic-stricken attempts to avert what is feared by placating the gods with painful sacrifices.

The memory, experiencing and re-experiencing, has such power over one's mere personal life, that one has merely lived.

To every man in the world there is one person of whom he knows little: whom he would never recognize if he met him walking down the street, whose motives are a mystery to him. That is himself.