The cocktail party - as the name itself indicates - was originally invented by dogs. They are simply bottom-sniffings raised to the rank of formal ceremonies.
Art—the meaning of the pattern of our common actions in reality. The cloth-of-gold that hides behind the sackcloth of reality, forced out by the pain of human memory.
No one can go on being a rebel too long without turning into an autocrat.
Poetry is what happens when an anxiety meets a technique.
All artists today are expected to cultivate a little fashionable unhappiness.
Truth is what most contradicts itself.
I suppose the secret of his success is in his tremendous idleness which almost approaches the supernatural.
I am just a refugee from the long slow toothache of English life. It is terrible to love life so much you can hardly breathe!
Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?
He thought and suffered a good deal but he lacked the resolution to dare--the first requisite of a practitioner.
after all the work of the philosophers on his soul and the doctors on his body, what can we really say we know about a man? That he is, when all is said and done, just a passage for liquids and solids, a pipe of flesh.
Brazil is bigger than Europe, wilder than Africa, and weirder than Baffin Land.
You see, nothing matters except pleasure - which is the opposite of happiness, its tragic part, I expect.
How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.
Let us define 'man' as a poet perpetually conspiring against himself.
The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
Sorrow is implicit in love as gravitation is implicit in mass.
No history much? Perhaps. Only this ominous Dark beauty flowering under veils, Trapped in the spectrum of a dying style: A village like an instinct left to rust, Composed around the echo of a pistol-shot.
I have done so many things in my life," she said to the mirror. "Evil things, perhaps. But never unattentively, never wastefully...was I wrong?
I had become, with the approach of night, once more aware of loneliness and time - those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything.
There is no pain compared to that of loving a woman who makes her body accessible to one and yet who is incapable of delivering her true self -- because she does not know where to find it.
People only see in us the contemptible skirt-fever which rules our actions but completely miss the beauty-hunger underlying it.
Odd, isn't it? He really was the right man for her in a sort of way; but then as you know, it is a law of love that the so-called 'right' person always comes to soon or too late.
It’s only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness.
The sense of truth no matter how subjective is necessary for the experience of beauty.
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