Intimacy is a difficult art.

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I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.

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We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

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Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.

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I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.

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Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.

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Until we can comprehend the beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the meaning and potential of life itself.

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Be truthful, and the result is bound to be amazingly interesting.

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Let us simmer over our incalculable cauldron, our enthralling confusion, our hotchpotch of impulses, our perpetual miracle - for the soul throws up wonders every second. Movement and change are the essence of our being; rigidity is death; conformity is death; let us say what comes into our heads, repeat ourselves, contradict ourselves, fling out the wildest nonsense, and follow the most fantastic fancies without caring what the world does or thinks or says. For nothing matters except life.

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One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

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