Artistic temperament sometimes seems a battleground, a dark angel of destruction and a bright angel of creativity wrestling.
I believe that each work of art, whether it is a work of great genius, or something very small, comes to the artist and says, "Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me."
If I didn't get fond I could be happy all the time.
We do not know and cannot tell when the spirit is with us. Great talent or small, it makes no difference. We are caught within our own skins, our own sensibilities; we never know if our technique has been adequate to the vision.
And sometimes when we listen, we are led into places we do not expect, into adventures we do not always understand.
The truth is that I hate to think about other people reading my books," Miranda said. "It's like watching someone go through the box of private stuff that I keep under my bed.
When the bright angel dominates, out comes a great work of art, a Michelangelo David or a Beethoven symphony.
I looked at this tiny, perfect creature and it was as though a light switch had been turned on. A great rush of love flooded out of me.
It takes too much energy to be against something unless it's really important.
I love, therefore I am vulnerable.
Hate hurts the hater more'n the hated.
Be aware that rigidity imprisons.
It is all, as usual, paradox. I have to use what intellect I have in order to write books, but I write the kind of books I do in order that I may try to set down glimpses of things that are on the other side of the intellect. We do not go around and discard the intellect, but we must go through and beyond it.
you've got to learn to walk through a pigpen and not get dirty.
To grow up is to accept vulnerability. To be alive is to be vulnerable.
Anything that's natural can't be sinful-it may be inconvenient, but it's not sinful.
Love is the one surprise.
There's nothing more physically exhausting than a sense of failure.
We human beings grow through our failures, not our virtues.
To refuse to respond is in itself a response.
It was not an end, it was a beginging
Death is contagious; it is contracted the moment we are conceived.
And I can't say it now. I can't say what I want to say. I hold you-- I-- I clutch you, because I love you so desperately, and time is so short, we have such a little time in which to live and be young, even at best, and I put my arms around you and hold you because I want to love you while I can and I want to know I'm loving you, only it doesn't mean anything because you aren't afraid. You aren't frightened so that you want to clutch it all while you can.
An artist is someone who cannot rest, who can never rest as long as there is one suffering creature in the world.
Unlearning is the choice, conscious or unconscious, of any real artist. And it is the true sign of maturity.
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