“Surely all art is the result of one’s having been in danger, of having gone through an experience all the way to the end, where no one can go any further.”

Love is like the measles. The older you get it, the worse the attack.

He reproduced himself with so much humble objectivity, with the unquestioning, matter of fact interest of a dog who sees himself in a mirror and thinks: there’s another dog.

The more strongly you cultivate this belief, the more will reality and the world go forth from it.

The only journey is the one within.

This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love: the more they give, the more they possess.

No great art has ever been made without the artist having known danger.

I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.

A person isn’t who they are during the last conversation you had with them – they’re who they’ve been throughout your whole relationship.

It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything.

There are no classes in life for beginners; right away you are always asked to deal with what is most difficult.

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.

There are quantities of human beings, but there are many more faces, for each person has several.

The ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.

All the soarings of my mind begin in my blood.

More belongs to marriage than four legs in a bed.

Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

No matter how much strong black coffee we drink, almost any after- dinner speech will counteract it.

Human reason can excuse any evil; that is why it’s so important that we don’t rely on it.

When do any of us ever do enough?

Any happiness, no matter how brief, seemed better than the long, simmering torture of waking up day after day, knowing i could never have him.

You will die. You will not live forever. Nor will any man nor any thing. Nothing is immortal. But only to us is it given to know that we must die. And that is a great gift: the gift of selfhood. For we have only what we know we must lose, what we are willing to lose…

Love is like any other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it.

Any one prominent in affairs can always see when a man may steal a horse and when a man may not look over a hedge.

One cannot demand of art that it pay you in any other way than in the satisfaction of the work itself.