De stoten die anderen uitdelen zijn even reëel als de regen die tegen het raam tikt en de wind en stroming die het luchtbed doen afdrijven richting open zee.
Cyril Connolly (1903-1974)
No one over thirty-five is worth meeting who has not something to teach us, – something more than we could learn by ourselves, from a book.
All would be love, poetry and doubt.
Why do ants alone have parasites whose intoxicating moistures they drink and for whom they will sacrifice even their young? Because as they are the most highly socialized of insects, so their lives are the most intolerable.
In the warm sea of experience we blob around like plankton, we love-absorb or hate-avoid each other or are avoided or are absorbed, devoured and devouring. Yet we are no more free than the cells in a plant or the microbes in a drop of water but are all held firmly in tension by the pull of the future and the tug of the past.
For art is made by the alone for the alone.
The instinct to create myth, to colonize reality with the emotions, remains.
Like those crabs which dress themselves with seaweed.
The unquiet grave