It is obvious that most people come to know only one corner of their room$$$ one spot near the window$$$ one narrow strip on which they keep walking back and forth.

Everything is gestation and then birthing.

Fame is finally only the sum total of all the misunderstanding that can gather around a new name.

Surely all art is the result of one's having been in danger$$$ of having gone through an experience all the way to the end$$$ where no one can go any further.

He may even have felt that God needed him more than Guenever did.

I've learned not to worry about what might come next.

She is a peacock in everything but beauty!

Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.

Popularity is the one insult I have never suffered.

Works of art are of an infinite solitude$$$ and no means of approach is so useless as criticism. Only love can touch and hold them and be fair to them.