When people look at my pictures I want them to feel the way they do when they want to read a line of a poem twice.
Luck! Well, call it that if you like. Call it luck if it makes you feel any better. Only I happen to know differently. Happens it, happened to me—and I know. It isn’t that I don’t believe in luck. No, but it isn’t what I mean. Say I was born innocent—that comes nearer to hitting the mark. When I think back to what I was as a kid, a kid of five or six, I realize that I haven’t altered a bit. I’m just as pure and innocent as ever. I remember my first impression of the world—that it was good, but terrifying. It still looks that way to me—good but terrifying. It was easy to frighten me, but I never spoiled inside. You can frighten me today, but you can’t make me sour. It’s settled. It’s in the blood.
If someone asks for an explanation of a work of art, there’s no point in answering, because they’ll be too dull to understand.
But I would say to my fellows, once for all, as long as possible live free and uncommitted. It makes but little difference whether you are committed to a farm or the county jail.
Only get desperate enough and everything will turn out well.
I love the picturesque glitter of a summer morning’s landscape.
What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is, what can you make people believe that you have done.
And now I seem to have come to the end of a long pilgrimage. I have made no discovery. Like a man waking out of sleep, I am once again looking at that to which I had for so long been blind.
I have learned that the swiftest traveler is he that goes afoot.
Wide creek and mist-blurred grass, moss is slippery though there’s been no rain, pine sings but there’s no wind, who can leap the world’s ties and sit with me among white clouds?
It is almost a law that when a man embarks on a great adventure he must cut all ties. He must take himself off to the wilderness…
There is no liberty except the liberty of someone making their way towards something.
I know there are a lot of beautiful churches and chapels out there that I should go look at…It doesn’t matter how charming cultures and art are, they’re useless without sympathy—All the prettiness of tapestries, lands, people: worthless if there is no sympathy—Poets of genius are just decorations on the wall if without the poetry of kindness…
To travel is to change one’s skin.
When spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.
It was spring in Paris and everything looked just a little too beautiful…
This is the moment when I know that any and all signs pointing to this or that place should be ignored, that one should always go toward the place for which there is no sign.
It is nicer to think than to do, to feel than to think, but nicest of all merely to look.
Should I at last go on my pilgrimage on foot on the dark roads around America?
None of us has the time to live the true dramas of the life that we are destined for.