Along the blade of a knife lies the path of paradox—the single most worthy path of the fearless mind . . . .

The whole world is one immense woman, and we are in her very womb, we are not yet born, we are joyfully ripening.

The literature of the immediate future will inevitably turn away from painting, whether respectably realistic or modern, and from daily life, whether old or the very latest and revolutionary, and turn to artistically realized philosophy.

You are afraid of it because it is stronger than you; you hate it because you are afraid of it; you love it because you cannot subdue it to your will. Only the unsubduable can be loved.

The most agonising thing is to drop doubt into a man about his being a reality, three-dimensional - and not some other kind of reality.

I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn't it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?

Literature is painting, architecture, and music.