“True art awakens the Extraordinary Ovation.”

The small man builds cages for everyone he knows While the sage, who has to duck his head when the moon is low, Keeps dropping keys all night long For the beautiful rowdy prisoners.

Stay close to anything that makes you glad you are alive.

Your love Should never be offered to the mouth of a Stranger, Only to someone Who has the valor and daring To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife Then weave them into a blanket To protect you.

The only friends who are free from cares are the goblet of wine and a book. Give me wine…that I may for a time forget the cares of the world.

This place where you are right now, God circled on a map for you.

I should not make any promises right now, But I know if you Pray Somewhere in this world – Something good will happen.

I once asked a bird, how is it that you fly in this gravity of darkness? She responded, ‘love lifts me.’

Greatness is always built on this foundation: the ability to appear, speak and act, as the most common man.

Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living in better conditions.

There are different wells within your heart. Some fill with each good rain, Others are far too deep for that.

Dear Ones, Beware of the tiny gods frightened men Create To bring anesthetic relief to their sad days.

You ache with loneliness one night so much you weep and I say ‘here is a rope tie it around me Hafiz will be your companion for life’.

Plant a Seed so your Heart will Grow.

We don’t need sugar, flour or rice or anything else. We just want to see our dear ones.

Run my dear, From anything, That may not strengthen, Your precious budding wings.

You yourself are your own obstacle, rise above yourself.

Each person’s work is always a portrait of himself.

I stand with Charlie Hebdo, as we all must, to defend the art of satire.

We took away your art because we thought it would reveal your souls. Or to put it more finely, we did it to prove you had souls at all.

Charm is the great English blight. It does not exist outside these damp islands. It spots and kills anything it touches. It kills love; it kills art; I greatly fear, my dear Charles, it has killed you.

Sunlight is painting.

Giving comfort under affliction requires that penetration into the human mind, joined to that experience which knows how to soothe, how to reason, and how to ridicule; taking the utmost care never to apply those arts improperly.

History repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is never reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird.

In the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the nonbelongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks.