They say geniuses mostly have great mothers. They mostly have sad fates.
Money is our madness, our vast collective madness.
Death is the only pure, beautiful conclusion of a great passion.
Ours is an excessively conscious age. We know so much, we feel so little.
The essential function of art is moral. But a passionate, implicit morality, not didactic. A morality which changes the blood, rather than the mind.
Be still when you have nothing to say when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot.
The human soul needs actual beauty more than bread.
A man has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modificat...
Reason is a supple nymph, and slippery as a fish by nature. She had as leave give her kiss to an absurdity any day, as to syllogistic truth. The absurdity may turn out truer.
Tragedy is like strong acid - it dissolves away all but the very gold of truth.
Ethics and equity and the principles of justice do not change with the calendar.
The fairest thing in nature, a flower, still has its roots in earth and manure.
So long as you don't feel life's paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, happiness or unhappiness.
Men! The only animal in the world to fear.
The world of men is dreaming, it has gone mad in its sleep, and a snake is strangling it, but it can't wake up.
The business of art is to reveal the relation between man and his environment.
I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regrets.
It is quite true, as some poets said, that the God who created man must have had a sinister sense of humor, creating him a reasonable being, yet forcing him to take this ridiculous posture, and drivin...
Design in art, is a recognition of the relation between various things, various elements in the creative flux. You can't invent a design. You recognize it, in the fourth dimension. That is, with your...
Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas!