Since These Mysteries Exceed My Grasp, I

Poetry Is A Religion With No Hope.

Mystery Has Its Own Mysteries, And There Are Gods Above Gods. We Have Ours, They Have Theirs. That Is What's Known As Infinity.

Appreciation Of Art Is A Moral Erection, Otherwise Mere Dilettantism.

If A Hermit Lives In A State Of Ecstasy, His Lack Of Comfort Becomes The Height Of Comfort. He Must Relinquish It.

Youth Can Only Assert Itself Through The Conviction That Its Ventures Surpass All Others And Resemble Nothing.