The only law which is really lived up to wholeheartedly and with a vengeance is the law of conformity.
Greece is the home of the gods; they may have died but their presence still makes itself felt. The gods were of human proportion: they were created out of the human spirit.
This is not a book in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty... what you will.
The piano bar is the gateway to the halls of masturbation.
The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life, which is a work of art.
That we cannot rise equal to situations when we are in them — that is the tragedy of life.
The study of crime begins with the knowledge of oneself.
I'm delirious because I'm dying so fast.
But it's just because the chances are all against you, just because there is so little hope, that life is sweet over here.
My understanding of the meaning of a book is that the book itself disappears from sight, that it is chewed alive, digested and incorporated into the system as flesh and blood which in turn creates new spirit and reshapes the world.
When spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.
The smile was so painfully swift and fleeting that it was like the flash of a knife.
The moment one is on the side of life; peace and security drop out of consciousness. The only peace, the only security, is in fulfillment.
One can see now how the idea of heaven takes hold of men's consciousness, how it gains ground even when all the props have been knocked from under it. There must be another world beside this swamp in which everything is dumped pell-mell. It's hard to imagine what it can be like, this heaven that men dream about.
Men are not suffering from the lack of good literature, good art, good theatre, good music, but from that which has made it impossible for these to become manifest. In short, they are suffering from the silent shameful conspiracy (the more shameful since it is unacknowledged) which has bound them together as enemies of art and artists.
The monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of this dung heap, but that, for some reason or other, they should want roses.
Often, when following the trail which meanders over the hills, I pull myself up in an effort to encompass the glory and the grandeur which envelops the whole horizon. Often, when the clouds pile up in the north and the sea is churned with white caps, I say to myself: "This is the California that men dreamed of years ago, this is the Pacific that Balboa looked out on from the Peak of Darien, this is the face of the earth as the Creator intended it to look.
Understanding is not a piercing of the mystery, but an acceptance of it, a living blissfully with it, in it, through and by it.
Life's wildest moment---she kneels on the sidewalk. Everything else she does is lies, lies.
Things happen or they don't happen, that's all. Nothing is accomplished by sweat and struggle. Nearly everything which we call life is just insomnia, an agony because we've lost the habit of falling asleep. We don't know how to let go. We're like a Jack-in-the-box perched on top of a spring and the more we struggle the harder it is to get back in the box.
Remorse is impotence; it will sin again. Only repentance is strong - it can end everything.
Paint what you like and die happy
For the artist to attach himself to his work, or identify himself with it, is suicidal.
Whoever uses the spirit that is in him creatively is an artist. To make living itself an art, that is the goal.
I had to learn, as I soon did, that one must give up everything and not do anything else but write, that one must writer and write and write, even if everybody in the world advises you against it, even if nobody believes in you.
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