Everyone should know nowadays the unimportance of the photographic in art: that truth, life, or reality is an organic thing which the poetic imagination can represent or suggest, in essence, only through transformation, through changing into other forms than those which were merely present in appearance.

I don't mean what other people mean when they speak of a home, because I don't regard a home as a...well, as a place, a building...a house...of wood, bricks, stone. I think of a home as being a thing that two people have between them in which each can...well, nest.

Go, then! Go to the moon-you selfish dreamer!

If you can't be yourself, what's the point of being anyone else?

Being a memory play, it is dimly lighted, it is sentimental. It is not realistic.

I think time is a merciless thing. I think life is a process of burning oneself out and time is the fire that burns you.

For there was a conspiracy of dullness in the world, a universal plan to shut out the resurgences of spirit which might interfere with clockwork. Better to keep your elevation unseen until it is higher than strangers' hands can reach to pull you down to their level.