I think the mystery of art lies in this, that artists’ relationship is essentially with their work — not with power, not with profit, not with themselves, not even with their audience.

They can send death at once, but life is slower.

When in the Land of Property think like a propertarian. Dress like one, eat like one, act like one, be one.

Compare the torrent and the glacier. Both get where they are going.

In art, 'good enough' is not good enough.

Paradise is for those who make paradise.

All or nothing at all, the true lover says, and that's the truth of it. My love will never die, he says. He claims eternity. And rightly. How can it die when it's life itself? What do we know of eternity but the glimpse we get of it when we enter in that bond?