The inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart.
The unnatural and the strange have a perfume of their own.
I seek and don’t find myself. I belong to chrysanthemum hours, neatly lined up in flowerpots.
It’s in an inland sea that the river of my life ended.
Art gives us the illusion of liberation from the sordid business of being.
I carry my awareness of defeat like a banner of victory.
Direct experience is the evasion, or hiding place of those devoid of imagination.
I take with me the conscience of defeat as a victory banner.
There are those that even God exploits, and they are prophets and saints in the vacuousness of the world.
The superiority of the dreamer is that dreaming is much more practical than living, and that the dreamer extracts from life a much vaster and varied pleasure than the action man. In better and more direct words, the dreamer is the real action man.
I never meant to be but a dreamer.
Humanitarianism is rude.
I search and can’t find myself. I belong in chrysanthemum time, sharp in calla lily elongations. God made my soul into an ornamental thing.
Nature is the difference between the soul and God.
Action men are the unvoluntary slaves of wise men.
I’m a man for whom the outside world is an inner Reality.
It is noble to be shy, illustrious not to know how to act, great not to have a gift for living.
And let our despite go to those who work and fight and our hate to those who hope and trust.
The Gods sell when they give. Glory is paid for with disgrace. Poor are the happy, for they are Just what passes.
If life has given us no more than a prison cell, let’s at least decorate it as best we can-with the shadows of our dreams, their colourful patterns engraving our oblivion on the static surface of the walls.