生活
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use—silence, exile, and cunning.
Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
The real way of living is to answer to one’s wants.
But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?
You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.
In order to write about life first you must live it.
Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.
The man who has begun to live more seriously within begins to live more simply without.
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners.
Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves.
The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use—silence, exile, and cunning.
Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.