The truth is simple. If it was complicated, everyone would understand it.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked.
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long.
It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them. And perhaps it is the case that the greatest artists live and die, the world and themselves alike ignorant what they possess.