Others

it is the universal or divine blood that flows through us all.

The fundamental cause of the trouble is that in the modern world the stupid are cocksure while the intelligent are full of doubt.

Beauty is not the goal of competitive sports, but high-level sports are a prime venue for the expression of human beauty. The relation is roughly that of courage to war.

All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer.

I learn immediately from any speaker how much he has already lived, through the poverty or the splendor of his speech.

I learn immediately from any speaker how much he has already lived, through the poverty or the splendor of his speech.

Speak clearly, if you speak at all; Carve every word before you let it fall.

Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous—to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.

Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous—to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.

Sometimes you have to be silent to be heard.

There is an eloquent silence: it serves sometimes to approve, sometimes to condemn.

The silence that accepts merit as the most natural thing in the world is the highest applause.

Silence is the unbearable repartee.

Thought works in silence, so does virtue. One might erect statues to silence.

Thought works in silence, so does virtue. One might erect statues to silence.

Artists are the antennae of the race.

Artists are the antennae of the race.

Every production of an artist should be the expression of an adventure of his soul.

Every production of an artist should be the expression of an adventure of his soul.

If the artist does not fling himself, without reflecting, into his work . . . as the soldier flings himself into the enemy’s trenches, and if, once in this crater, he does not work like a miner . . . he is simply looking on at the suicide of his own talent.

If the artist does not fling himself, without reflecting, into his work . . . as the soldier flings himself into the enemy’s trenches, and if, once in this crater, he does not work like a miner . . . he is simply looking on at the suicide of his own talent.

The serious artist . . . is like an object caught by a wave and swept to shore. He’s obsessed by his material; it’s like a venom working in his blood and the art is the antidote.

The serious artist . . . is like an object caught by a wave and swept to shore. He’s obsessed by his material; it’s like a venom working in his blood and the art is the antidote.

The most common sort of lie is the one uttered to one’s self.