Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

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

I go about looking at horses and cattle. They eat grass, make love, work when they have to, bear their young. I am sick with envy of them.

What's wrong with this egotism? If a man doesn't delight in himself and the force in him and feel that he and it are wonders, how is all life to become important to him?

The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor.

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?.

I had a world, and it slipped away from me. The War blew up more than the bodies of men....It blew ideas away.