Everyone in the world is Christ and they are all crucified.

It was a cold day but the sun was out and the trees were like great bonfires against gray distant fields and hills.

If I can write everything out plainly, perhaps I will myself understand better what has happened.

You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.

It is no use. I find it impossible to work with security staring me in the face.

Most people are afraid to trust their imaginations and the artist is not.

From being quite sure of himself and his future he becomes not at all sure. If he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as though they marched in procession before him, the countless figures of men who before his time have come out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives and again disappeared into nothingness. The sadness of sophistication has come to the boy.