In reality, killing time is only the name for another of the multifarious ways by which Time kills us.

Blood is that fragile scarlet tree we carry within us.

The artist, like the idiot or clown, sits on the edge of the world, and a push may send him over it.

The only difference between an artist and a lunatic is, perhaps, that the artist has the restraint or courtesy to conceal the intensity of his obsession from all except those similarly afflicted.

A golf course outside a big town serves an excellent purpose in that it segregates, as though a concentration camp, all the idle and idiot well-to-do.

Poetry is like fish: if it's fresh, it's good; if it's stale, it's bad; and if you're not certain, try it on the cat.

For Poetry is the wisdom of the blood,That scarlet tree within, which has the powerTo make dull words bud forth and burst in flower.

I have always said that if I were a rich man, I would employ a professional praiser.

Everywhere men have unlocked the prisoners within, and from under the disguising skins the apes have leapt joyfully out.

We attended stables, as we attended church, in our best clothes, thereby no doubt showing the degree of respect due to horses.

Hell has a climate, but no situation. It lies in the spirit, and not in space.

A flawed rose is better than a flawless dandy lion.

My mind cannot grasp forever, " she told him. "There must surely be an end somewhere. But the big question is-what it beyond the end?

If you've ever made change in the offering plate, you might be a redneck.

People give up control because they don't want to make mistakes.

I like someone I can have fun with and who can be more laid-back than I am, because it calms me down.

With his sunglasses gone and his scarf hanging down, there was no denying that he had no flesh, he had no skin, he had no eyes and he had no face. All he had was a skull for a head.

It's easier to be original and foolish than original and wise.

A traveller at Sparta, standing long upon one leg, said to a Lacedaemonian, "I do not believe you can do as much." "True," said he, "but every goose can."

When someone we love dies, we get so busy mourning what died that we ignore what didn't.

If I love a song I hope to find a way to get other people to love it too.