A human soul devoid of longing was a soul deformed, deprived of its highest good, sick unto death.

I seem to have the blind self-acceptance of the eccentric who can't conceive that his eccentricities are not clearly understood.

I don't know exactly how it's done. I let it alone a good deal.

You have, like the external world, your own phenomena inside.

The soul has to find and hold its ground against hostile forces, sometimes embodied in ideas which frequently deny its very existence, and which indeed often seem to be trying to annul it altogether.

Art attempts to find in the universe, in matter as well as in the facts of life, what is fundamental, enduring, essential.

O Lord! he concluded, forgive all these trespasses. Lead me not into Penn Station.