Second hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

Fear no more, says the heart.

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

Behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

I ransack public libraries & find them full of sunk treasure.

It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.