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| A man has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it; and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification. |
| Atheism; Mankind; Men; Religion |
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| A snake came to my water-trough / On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, / To drink there. |
| Uncategorized |
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| After all, the world is not a stage -- not to me: nor a theatre: nor a show-house of any sort. And art, especially novels, are not little theatres where the reader sits aloft and watches... and sighs, commiserates, condones and smiles. That's what yo |
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| All that we know is nothing, we are merely crammed wastepaper baskets, unless we are in touch with that which laughs at all our knowing |
| Uncategorized |
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| All vital truth contains the memory of all that for which it is not true. |
| Uncategorized |
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| Along the avenue of cypresses, / All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices / Of linen, go the chanting choristers, / The priests in gold and black, the villagers. |
| Uncategorized |
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| America does to me what I knew it would do: it just bumps me. The people charge at you like trucks coming down on you - no awareness. But one tries to dodge aside in time. Bump! bump! go the trucks. And that is human contact. |
| Uncategorized |
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| America is neither free nor brave, but a land of tight, iron-clanking little wills, everybody trying to put it over everybody else, and a land of men absolutely devoid of the real courage of trust, trust in life's sacred spontaneity. They can't trust life until they can control it. |
| Uncategorized |
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| An artist is only an ordinary man with a greater potentiality--same stuff, same make up, only more force. And the strong driving force usually finds his weak spot, and he goes cranked, or goes under. |
| Art; Potential |
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| And down his mouth comes to my mouth! and down His bright dark eyes come over me, like a hood Upon my mind! his lips meet mine, and a flood Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown Against him, die, and find death good |
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| And if tonight my soul may find her peace in sleep, and sink in good oblivion, and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created. |
| Uncategorized |
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| And now he's tiny, and soft like a little bud of life! |
| Uncategorized |
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| And what's romance? Usually, a nice little tale where you have everything as you like it, where rain never wets your jacket and gnats never bite your nose, and it's always daisy-time. |
| Romance |
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| Art-speech is the only truth. An artist is usually a damned liar, but his art, if it be art, will tell you the truth of his day. And that is all that matters. Away with eternal truth. |
| Art; Speech; Truth |
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| Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot. |
| Passion |
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| Brute force crushes many plants. Yet the plants rise again. The Pyramids will not last a moment compared with the daisy. And before Buddha or Jesus spoke the nightingale sang, and long after the words of Jesus and Buddha are gone into oblivion the ni |
| Religion |
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| But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions. |
| Life |
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| But then peace, peace! I am so mistrustful of it: so much afraid that it means a sort of weakness and giving in. |
| Peace |
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