I think Kandinsky and I were very near friends.
In our age, self-indulgence and self-destruction, rather than self-sacrifice, are the foundations for new heroic myths.
If we were always conscious of the fact that people precious to us are frighteningly mortal, hanging not even by a thread, but by a wisp of gossamer, perhaps we would be kinder to them and more grateful for the love and friendship they give to us.
We are all the walking wounded in a world that is a war zone. Everything we love will be taken from us, everything, last of all life itself. Yet everywhere I look, I find great beauty in this battlefield, and grace and the promise of joy.
A scar is not always a flaw. Sometimes a scar may be redemption inscribed in the flesh, a memorial to something endured, to something lost.
We can approach belief from an intellectual path, but in the end, God must be taken on faith. Proofs are for things of this world, things in time and of time, not beyond time.
What does worry accomplish except to breed more worry?
A man must have grown old and lived long in order to see how short life is.
Hey, ah, does anyone want a cookie or something? Oh yeah. A cookie. That would make everything better. Dunked in a shot of tequila , maybe? Or better yet, just the bottle? Yeah, that ought to do it.
Mankind is becoming a single unit, and that for a unit to fight against itself is suicide.
Poetry offers the fairest hope of restoring our lost unity of mind.