The object of art is not to make salable pictures. It is to save yourself.

There is this thing called life. We live it, not as we intend or wish, but as we are driven on by forces outside and inside ourselves.

People keep on getting married. Evidently hope is eternal in the human breast.

Interest in the lives of others, the high evaluation of these lives, what are they but the overflow of the interest a man finds in himself, the value he attributes to his own being?.

On the trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers have rejected. They look like the knuckles of Doctor Reefy's hands. One nibbles at them and they are delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the apple has been gathered all its sweetness. One runs from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.

Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.