Of what use were the arts if they were only the reproduction and the imitation of life?

We shall find in our troubled hearts, where discord reigns, two needs which seem at variance, but which merge, as I think, in a common source - the love of the true, and the love of the fabulous.

The true God, the mighty God, is the God of ideas.

Of what use is the memory of facts, if not to serve as an example of good or of evil?

On the day when man told the story of his life to man, history was born.

Do you not see with your own eyes the chrysalis fact assume by degrees the wings of fiction?

The first among mankind will always be those who make something imperishable out of a sheet of paper, a canvas, a piece of marble, or a few sounds

Only silence is great; all else is weakness.

Fainthearted animals move about in herds. The lion walks alone in the desert. Let the poet always walk thus.

History is a novel for which the people is the author.

I love the majesty of human suffering.

You are not better than your thought... As a man thinks so is he..

A 21st century poet is a woman who can speak her mind and stand upright like a mountain with her convictions, but can adapt like water in an ever changing season without losing her genuine elements.

One of the most moral acts is to create a space in which life can move forward.

But what is great can only begin great.

Our life on earth is and ought to be material and carnal. But we have not yet learned to manage our materialism and carnality properly they are still entangled with the desire for ownership.

You know, a lot of people are just interested in, in building a company so they can make money and get out.

I'm not sure that I am able to feel embarrassment.

Life is to short to be little.

But he cannot see a connection between the end of yearning and the end of poetry. Is that what growing up amounts to: growing out of yearning, of passion, of all intensities of the soul?

Death and loss, they plague you. So do memories. Like the Mississippi's incessant slap against the levees, they creep up with deceptive sweetness before grabbing your heart and pulling it under.