A straight path never leads anywhere except to the objective.
Archives for January 2017
A painting is what you make of it, besides which, ‘Moon, Weeping’ has a better ring to it than ‘Paintbrush, Dripping.’
All meanings, we know, depend on the key of interpretation.
A curious thing about written literature: It is about four thousand years old, but we have no way of knowing whether four thousand years constitutes senility or the maiden blush of youth.
Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it.
Ever since I was a child, I have had the tendency to create a fictitious world around me, to surround myself with friends and acquaintances who never existed.
Never does nature say one thing and wisdom another.
Art is beauty, the perpetual invention of detail, the choice of words, the exquisite care of execution.
In some mysterious way words have never seemed to me to be static things. In physical terms, I move through them; yet in metaphysical ones, they seem to move through me.
The dreamer can know no truth, not even about his dream, except by awaking out of it.