Innocence is not pure so much as pleased, Always expectant, bright-eyed, self-enclosed
Failure would only be if you had somewhere stopped growing. As far as I can see the whole duty of the artist is to keep on growing.
How unnatural the imposed view, imposed by a puritanical ethos, that passionate love belongs only to the young, that people are dead from the neck down by the time they are forty, and that any deep feeling, any passion after that age, is either ludicrous or revolting!
When it comes to the important things one is always alone.
What we have not has made us what we are. / ... / What we are not drives us to consummation.
Solitude is the salt of personhood. It brings out the authentic flavor of every experience.
I have sometimes wondered also whether in people like me who come to the boil fast (soupe au lait, the French call this trait, like a milk soup that boils over) the tantrum is not a built-in safety valve against madness or illness. ... The fierce tension in me, when it is properly channeled, creates the good tension for work. But when it becomes unbalanced I am destructive. How to isolate that good tension is my problem these days. Or, put in another way, how to turn the heat down fast enough so the soup won't boil over!
You will always be here with me; As long as I live, A towering figure of love.
Wrinkles here and there seem unimportant compared to the Gestalt of the whole person I have become in this past year.
Pain can make a whole winter bright, like fever, force us to live deep and hard.
The value of solitude - one of its values - is, of course, that there is nothing to cushion against attacks from within, just as there is nothing to help balance at times of particular stress or depression.
They are commiting murder who merely live.
It looks as if I were meant to be alone, and that any hope of happiness is not meant. Am I too old to acquire the knack for happiness?
all great people are humble because great people have great work and are humbled by the largeness of their dreams.
Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.
Words are my passion / And out of them and me / I would create beauty.
I would predicate that in all great works of genius masculine and feminine elements in the personality find expression, whether this androgynous nature is played out sexually or not.
life is always bringing unexpected gifts.
An old body when it is loved becomes a sacred treasure; and sex itself must always, it seems to me, come to us as a sacrament and be so used or it is meaningless. The flesh is suffused by the spirit, and it is forgetting this in the act of love-making that creates cynicism and despair.
I suppose I envy painters because they can meditate on form and structure, on color and light, and not concern themselves with human torment and chaos. It is restful even to imagine expression without words.
We can do anything, or almost, but how balanced, magnanimous, and modest one has to be to do anything! And also how patient. It is as true in the arts as anywhere else.
It is possible, I suppose, that we are returning to a Dark Age. What is frightening is that violence is not only represented by nations, but everywhere walks among us freely.
If I were to choose one single thing that that would restore Paris to the senses, it would be that strangely sweet, unhealthy smell of the Métro, so very unlike the dank cold or the stuffy heat of subways in New York.
Being very rich as far as I am concerned is having a margin. The margin is being able to give.
I've been thinking about happiness-how wrong it is ever to expect it to last or there to be a time of happiness. It's not that, it's a moment of happiness. Almost every day contains at least one moment of happiness.
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