Life is a solitary cell whose walls are mirrors.
To hell with the truth! As the history of the world proves, the truth has no bearing on anything. It's irrelevant and immaterial, as the lawyers say. The lie of a pipe dream is what gives life to the whole misbegotten mad lot of us, drunk or sober.
We are such things as rubbish is made of, so let's drink up and forget it.
Man's loneliness is but his fear of life.
Obsessed by a fairy tale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of peace.
Censorship of anything, at any time, in any place, on whatever pretense, has always been and always will be the last resort of the boob and the bigot.
Be always drunken. Nothing else matters: that is the only question. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken continually.Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. But be drunken.
Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue.
There is no present or future- only the past, happening over and over again-now.
Curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction brought it back.
None of us can help the things life has done to us. They're done before you realize it, and once they're done they make you do other things until at last everything comes between you and what you'd like to be, and you've lost your true self forever.
Why am I afraid to dance, I who love music and rhythm and grace and song and laughter? Why am I afraid to live, I who love life and the beauty of flesh and the living colors of the earth and sky and sea? Why am I afraid to love, I who love love?
I am so far from being a pessimist… on the contrary, in spite of my scars, I am tickled to death at life.
When men make gods, there is no God!
When you're 50 you start thinking about things you haven't thought about before. I used to think getting old was about vanity - but actually it's about losing people you love. Getting wrinkles is trivial.
One should either be sad or joyful. Contentment is a warm sty for eaters and sleepers.
Life is for each man a solitary cell whose walls are mirrors.
A game of secret, cunning stratagems, in which only the fools who are fated to lose reveal their true aims or motives - even to themselves.
[Her] love and tenderness... gave me the faith in love that enabled me to face my dead at last and write this play-write it with deep pity and understanding and forgiveness for all the four haunted Tyrones.
While you are still beautiful and life still woos, it is such a fine gesture of disdainful pride to jilt it.
Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. But be drunken.
Take some wood and canvas and nails and things. Build yourself a theater, a stage, light it, learn about it. When you've done that you will probably know how to write a play.
If a person is to get the meaning of life he must learn to like the facts about himself -- ugly as they may seem to his sentimental vanity -- before he can learn the truth behind the facts. And the truth is never ugly.
The lie of a pipe dream is what gives life to the whole misbegotten mad lot of us, drunk or sober.
The old - like children - talk to themselves, for they have reached that hopeless wisdom of experience which knows that though one were to cry it in the streets to multitudes, or whisper it in the kiss to one's beloved, the only ears that can ever hear one's secrets are one's own!
I spent a year in Professor Baker's famous class at Harvard. There, too, I learned some things that were useful to me-particularly what not to do. Not to take ten lines, for instance, to say something that can be said in one line.
Writing is my vacation from living.
I will be an artist or nothing!
The only living life is in the past and future - the present is an interlude - strange interlude in which we call on past and future to bear witness that we are living.
Dogs… do not ruin their sleep worrying about how to keep the objects they have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing of value they have to bequeath except their love and their faith.
God gave us mouths that close and ears that don't... that should tell us something.
We need above all to learn again to believe in the possibility of nobility of spirit in ourselves.
One last word of farewell, dear master and mistress. Whenever you visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my long happy life with you: "Here lies one who loves us and whom we loved." No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail.
We are where centuries only count as seconds, and after a thousand lives, our eyes begin to open.
The devil! what beastly things our memories insist on cherishing!
Critics? I love every bone in their heads.
Suppose I was to tell you that it's just beauty that's calling me, the beauty of the far off and unknown, the mystery and spell which lures me, the need of freedom of great wide spaces, the joy of wandering on and on - in quest of the secret which is hidden over there - beyond the horizon?
It was a great mistake, my being born a man, I would have been much more successful as a seagull or a fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must be a little in love with death!
How thick the fog is. I can't see the road. All the people in the world could pass by and I would never know. I wish it was always that way. It's getting dark already. It will soon be night, thank goodness.