Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.

To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living.

It's a lot to ask of one creature, it's a lot to ask, that he should first behave as if he were not, then as if he were, before being admitted to that peace where he neither is, nor is not, and where the language dies that permits of such expressions.

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker.