The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move. This is the artist's way of scribbling "Kilroy was here" on the wall of the final and irrevocable oblivion through which he must someday pass.

I believe in God, God. God, I believe in God.

The past is never dead. It's not even past.

It's not when you realize that nothing can help you — religion, pride, anything — it's when you realize that you don't need any aid.

How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls.

This does not matter. This is not anything yet. It all depends on what you do with it, afterward.

I listen to the voices.