music heard so deeply That it is not heard at all, but you are the music While the music lasts.

And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

For you know only a heap of broken images

What is this self-inside us, this silent observer, severe and speechless critic, who can terrorize us, and urge us onto futile activity, and in the end, judge us still more severely for the errors into which his own reproaches drove us?

There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.

Our difficulties of the moment must always be dealt with somehow, but our permanent difficulties are difficulties of every moment.

Art is the escape from personality.