I have a very great fear of love. It is so personal. Let each bird fly with its own wings, and each fish swim its own course. – Morning brings more than love. And I want to be true to the morning.
If you believe in your own sex, and won’t have it done dirt to: they’ll down you. It’s the one insane taboo left: sex as a naturaland vital thing.
Gods die with men who have conceived them. But the god-stuff roars eternally, like the sea, with too vast a sound to be heard.
We must know, if only in order to learn not to know. The supreme lesson of human consciousness is to learn how not to know. That is, how not to interfere.
Tragedy looks to me like man in love with his own defeat. Which is only a sloppy way of being in love with yourself.
The East is marvellously interesting for tracing our steps back. But for going forward, it is nothing. All it can hope for is to be fertilised by Europe, so that it can start on a new phase.
Only this shimmeriness is the real living. The shape is a dead crust. The shimmer is inside really.
The mind is “ashamed” of the blood. And the blood is destroyed by the mind, actually. Hence palefaces.
You don’t want to be an animal, you want to observe your own animal functions, so as to get a mental thrill out of them. It is allpurely secondary – and more decadent than the most hide-bound intellectualism.
The nice clean intimacy which we now so admire between the sexes is sterilizing. It makes neuters. Later on, no deep, magical sex-life is possible.
A book lives as long as it is unfathomed.
Go deeper than love, for the soul has greater depths, love is like the grass, but the heart is deep wild rock molten, yet dense and permanent.
Psychoanalysis is out, under a therapeutic disguise, to do away entirely with the moral faculty in man.
No creature is fully itself till it is, like the dandelion, opened in the bloom of pure relationship to the sun, the entire living cosmos.
Men always do leave off really thinking, when the last bit of wild animal dies in them.
Another head – and a black alpaca jacket and a serviette this time – to tell us coffee is ready. Not before it is time, too.
I shall always be a priest of love.
But the effort, the effort! And as the marrow is eaten out of a man’s bones and the soul out of his belly, contending with the strange rapacity of savage life, the lower stage of creation, he cannot make the effort any more.
What one does in one’s art, that is the breath of one’s being. What one does in one’s life, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.
The autumn always gets me badly, as it breaks into colours. I want to go south, where there is no autumn, where the cold doesn’t crouch over one like a snow-leopard waiting to pounce.