Art and religion (they are the same thing, in the end, of course) have given man the only happiness he has ever had.

Claude Wheeler opened his eyes before the sun was up and vigorously shook his younger brother, who lay in the other half of the same bed.

I had killed a big snake. I was now a big fellow.

The voice is a wild thing. It can't be bred in captivity.

One summer evening in the year 1848, three Cardinals and a missionary were dining together in the gardens of a villa in the Sabine hills, overlooking Rome.

People live through such pain only once. Pain comes again—but it finds a tougher surface.

An artist's saddest secrets are those that have to do with his artistry.