Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.
Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.
Each contact with a human being is so rare, so precious, one should preserve it.
Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.
If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.
A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.
If all of us acted in unison as I act individually there would be no wars and no poverty. I have made myself personally responsible for the fate of every human being who has come my way.
How wrong it is for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself.
The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.
There are many ways to be free. One of them is to transcend reality by imagination, as I try to do.
The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself.
The human father has to be confronted and recognized as human, as man who created a child and then, by his absence, left the child fatherless and then Godless.
When you make a world tolerable for yourself, you make a world tolerable for others.
There is not one big cosmic meaning for all, there is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person.
When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.
We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.
There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic.
Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.
I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.
Living never wore one out so much as the effort not to live.