Everything really desirable has come about because of, or in spite of, wine!
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.
Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will-whatever we may think.
What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?
A woman's best love letters are always written to the man she is betraying.
The artist's work constitutes the only satisfactory relationship he can have with his fellow men since he seeks his real friends among the dead and the unborn.
Shyness has laws you can only give yourself; tragically to those who least understand.
I have decided to leave Clea’s last letter un-answered. I no longer wish to coerce anyone, to make promises, to think of life in terms of compacts, resolutions, covenants. It will be up to Clea to interpret my silence according to her own needs and desires, to come to me if she has need or not, as the case may be. Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?
Everyone loathes his own country and countrymen if he is any sort of artist.
Guilt always hurries towards its complement, punishment: only there does its satisfaction lie.
Poetry is what happens when an anxiety meets a technique.
The heaviest impact of the work of art is in the guts. Art does not reason. It manhandles you and changes you.
It's unthinkable not to love - you'd have a severe nervous breakdown. Or you'd have to be Philip Larkin.
'We live' writes Pursewarden somewhere 'lives based upon selected fictions. Our view of reality is conditioned by our position in space and time — not by our personalities as we like to think. Thus every interpretation oа reality is based upon a unique position. Two paces east or west and the whole picture is changed.
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.
Truth is a matter of direct apprehension-you can't climb a ladder of mental concepts to it.
We should tackle reality in a slightly jokey way, otherwise we miss its point.
I see artists as a great battalion moving through paint, words, music towards cosmological interpretation.
Comedians are the nearest to suicide.
Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.
All culture corrupts, but French culture corrupts absolutely.
To be the equal of reality you must learn how to ignore it without danger.
I suppose the secret of his success is in his tremendous idleness which almost approaches the supernatural.
You see, nothing matters except pleasure - which is the opposite of happiness, its tragic part, I expect.
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.
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