“The difference between a gun and a tree is a difference of tempo. The tree explodes every spring.”

I did not enter into silence. Silence captured me.

The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet black bough.

The flavors of the peach and the apricot are not lost from generation to generation. Neither are they transmitted by book learning.

A real building is one on which the eye can light and stay lit.

Here is our poetry, for we have pulled down the stars to our will.

Nothing written for pay is worth printing. Only what has been written against the market.

Artists are the antennae of the race.

The artist is always beginning. Any work of art which is not a beginning, an invention, a discovery is of little worth.

I have always thought the suicide should bump off at least one swine before taking off for parts unknown.

The sum of human wisdom is not contained in any one language.

What thou lovest well remains.

Properly, we should read for power. Man reading should be man intensely alive. The book should be a ball of light in one’s hand.

If I could believe the Quakers banned music because church music is so damn bad, I should view them with approval.

Real education must ultimately be limited to men who insist on knowing, the rest is mere sheep-herding.

From the colour the nature And by the nature the sign! Beatific spirits welding together As in one ash-tree in Ygdrasail.

Don’t be blinded by the theorists and a lying press.