And that is ... how they are. So terribly physically all over one another. They pour themselves one over the other like so much melted butter over parsnips. They catch each other under the chin, with a tender caress of the hand, and they smile with sunny melting tenderness into each other's face.
If we lose our sanity ... We can but howl the lugubrious howl of idiots, the howl of the utterly lost howling their nowhereness.
Why is a door-knob deader than anything else?
You will not easily get a man to believe that his carnal love for the woman he has made his wife is as high a love as that he feltfor his mother or sister.
The human consciousness is really homogeneous. There is no complete forgetting, even in death.
That which one cannot experience in daily life is not true for oneself.
Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul.
The picture must all come out of the artist's inside, awareness of forms and figures... It is more than memory. It is the image as it lives in the consciousness, alive like a vision, but unknown.
An artist is only an ordinary man with a greater potentiality.
I hold that the parentheses are by far the most important parts of a non-business letter.
A little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for everyone.
Gods should be iridescent, like the rainbow in the storm. Man creates a God in his own image, and the gods grow old along with the men that made them... But the god-stuff roars eternally, like the sea, with too vast a sound to be heard.
The word arse is as much god as the word face. It must be so, otherwise you cut off your god at the waist.
Why doesn't the past decently bury itself, instead of sitting waiting to be admired by the present?
Whether I get on in the world is a question; but I certainly don't get on very well with the world.
The horse, the horse! The symbol of surging potency and power of movement, of action.
God how I hate new countries: They are older than the old, more sophisticated, much more conceited, only young in a certain puerile vanity more like senility than anything.
It's not art for art's sake, it's art for my sake.
Tragedy ought really to be a great kick at misery.
I believe that the highest virtue is to be happy, living in the greatest truth, not submitting to the falsehood of these personaltimes.
One sheds one's sicknesses in books - repeats and presents again one's emotions, to be master of them.
Our civilisation cannot afford to let the censor-moron loose. The censor-moron does not really hate anything but the living and growing human consciousness.
I cannot be a materialist - but Oh, how is it possible that a God who speaks to all hearts can let Belgravia go laughing to a vicious luxury, and Whitechapel cursing to a filthy debauchery - such suffering, such dreadful suffering - and shall the short years of Christ's mission atone for it all?
Towns oftener swamp one than carry one out onto the big ocean of life.
As we all know, too much of any divine thing is destruction
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