The Christos-image is most difficult to disentangle from its art-craft junk-shop paint-and-plaster medieval jumble of pain-worship and death-symbol.

In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies; in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus.

We are voyagers, discoverers of the not-known, the unrecorded; we have no map; possibly we will reach haven, heaven.

I will be free, no lover's kiss to bind me to earth, no bliss of love to counteract actual bliss.

Dance until the earth dance.

She did not look at the daffodils. They didn't mean anything. She looked at the daffodils. She said, 'Thank you for the daffodils.

One flower may slay the winter and meet death.

You are wind in a stark tree, you are the stark tree unbent, you are a strung bow, you are an arrow.

I could not accept from wisdom what love taught, woman is perfect.

Ah love is bitter and sweet, but which is more sweet the bitterness or the sweetness, none has spoken it.

No poetic phantasy but a biological reality, a fact: I am an entity like bird, insect, plant or sea-plant cell; I live; I am alive.

It was a vicious cycle, though. The more gratification we found in our own geniuses, the more isolated we grew.

When you play by the rules, defy mental demons, overcome every challenge, and enjoy a walk in the country at the same time - that's being alive.

It is a blessing for a man to have a hand in determining his own fate.

I want to take you away from this," I say, motioning around the kitchen, spastic. "From sushi and elves and... STUFF.

What would become of history, had we not a dependence on the veracity of the historian, according to the experience, what we have had of mankind?

Everything in life is elusive.

I know what I believe, I know what I want to do, and I'm just comfortable saying it, and laying it out there.

My commitment is to truth not consistency.

Acting isn't a game of "pretend." It's an exercise in being real.