“The maestro says it’s Mozart But it sounds like bubble gum.”

It’s time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.

And everything depends upon how near you sleep to me.

Stunned and still not suffering. Swollen with care and anxiety and still not suffering. Useless, old, and full of grief, but still not suffering.

He can love the shape of human beings, the fine and twisted shapes of the heart. It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love.

I’m old and the mirrors don’t lie.

I don’t even hate books anymore.

The older I get, the surer I am that I’m not running the show.

When passion dies friendship hovers round our flesh like flies.

There is a crack in everything.

The last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the sleeping world.

Poetry is a verdict, not an occupation.

We are so lightly here. It is in love that we are made. In love we disappear.

You wanted to be the Superman who was never Clark Kent.

Ordinary eternal machinery, like the grinding of the stars.

A young nurse is standing close behind me wondering whether she is being drawn by my power or her charity.

After a while, if you are sufficiently bored or unemployed, you may want to read it from cover to cover.

Riding a race bike is an art – a thing that you do because you feel something inside.

I don’t like differentiating between art and commercial cinema.

The more you are blessed with experience, the fuller and the more enriched you are in your craft.

Favorable and unfavorable conditions are part of living but smiling through them all is the Art of Living.

Do not many of us who fail to achieve big things fail because we lack concentration-the art of concentrating the mind on the thing to be done at the proper time and to the exclusion of everything else?

The excellence of every Art is its intensity.

Get rich by taking something common and making it uncommon.

And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.