Why do you always write poetry? Why do you not write prose? Prose is so much more difficult.

All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music.

Books are a refuge, a sort of cloistral refuge, from the vulgarities of the actual world.

To burn always with this hard, gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.

Art comes to you proposing frankly to give nothing but the highest quality to your moments as they pass.

Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end.

At first sight experience seems to bury us under a flood of external objects, pressing upon us with a sharp and importunate reality, calling us out of ourselves in a thousand forms of action.

Philosophical theories or ideas, as points of view, instruments of criticism, may help us to gather up what might otherwise pass unregarded by us.

Great passions may give us a quickened sense of life, ecstasy and sorrow of love, the various forms of enthusiastic activity, disinterested or otherwise, which comes naturally to many of us.

The way to perfection is through a series of disgusts

To know when one's self is interested, is the first condition of interesting other people.

Your beliefs attract to you the life you experience.

Idle hands are the devils greatest tools. But it’ll be good to notice that the tools sharpened by idle heads. You are idle because that’s the job your mind gave you!

Respect is primary.

I just want people to understand have fun, enjoy your time, enjoy your time on this Earth.

I have a conviction that a few weeks spent in a well organized summer camp may be of more value educationally than a whole year of formal school work.

Let all men know how empty and powerless is the power of kings. For there is none worthy of the name but God, whom heaven, earth and sea obey

Reason deceives us more often than does nature.

I can think of some things that would be fun, but I'm living my dreams.

Stop setting goals. Goals are pure fantasy unless you have a specific plan to achieve them.

The question of souls is old—we demand our bodies, now. We are tired of promises, god is deaf, and his church is our worst enemy.