No young man ever thinks he shall die.
Love points the way. Desire is its ignorant advisor.
Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.
Every day, a piece of music, a short story, or a poem dies because its existence is no longer justified in our time. And things that were once considered immortal have become mortal again, no one knows them anymore. Even though they deserve to survive.
Art and order, the relatives that refuse to relate.
Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist.
Only he who loves and is loved for his own sake can be happy, and what produces that happiness is not so much the sense of sexual communion as of two people being together. . . the sexual act viewed as a whole probably affords less happiness than a totally ordinary kiss or often indeed one simple word from the one you love.
A fairly clear line separated advertisement from art. . . . The first effect of the triumph of the capitalist (if we allow him to triumph) will be that that line of demarcation will entirely disappear. There will be no art that might not just as well be advertisement.
Acts of injustice done Between the setting and the rising sun In history lie like bones, each one.
In Romans 7, St. Paul says, "The law is spiritual. " What does that mean? If the law were physical, then it could be satisfied by works, but since it is spiritual, no one can satisfy it unless everything he does springs from the depths of the heart. But no one can give such a heart except the Spirit of God, who makes the person be like the law, so that he actually conceives a heartfelt longing for the law and henceforward does everything, not through fear or coercion, but from a free heart.
Sometimes it only takes three words, so long as they're the right words, to direct an actor in the right way.