Realism, in so far as the word means reality to life, is always bad art.

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

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

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

When a man publishes a book, there are so many stupid things said that he declares he'll never do it again. The praise is almost always worse than the criticism.

In that high place in the darkness the two oddly sensitive human atoms held each other tightly and waited. In the mind of each was the same thought. "I have come to this lonely place and here is this other," was the substance of the thing felt.

A man needs a purpose for real health.