That I may reduce the monster to Myself, and then may be myself In face of the monster, be more than part Of it, more than the monstrous player of One of its monstrous lutes, not be Alone, but reduce the monster and be, Two things, the two together as one, And play of the monster and of myself, Or better not of myself at all, But of that as its intelligence, Being the lion in the lute Before the lion locked in stone.

Place honey on the altars and die, You lovers that are bitter at heart.

What is there in life except one's ideas. Good air, good friend, what is there in life? Is it ideas that I believe?

Things as they are have been destroyed. Have I? Am I a man that is dead At a table on which the food is cold? Is my thought a memory, not alive? Is the spot on…

The battles that count aren't the ones for gold medals. The struggles within yourself - the invisible, inevitable battles inside all of us - that's where it's …

It's so damn hard to bloom: to change. Even when you want to change, want it more than anything in the world, it's hard. Desire to change isn't enough. Or desp…

I subdue matter and force it to become my mind's good medium. I rejoice in plants, in animals, in man and in gods, as though they were my children. I feel all …