There is not a single degradation of the body which I must not try and make into a spiritualising of the soul.
What the artist is always looking for is the mode of existence in which soul and body are one and indivisible: in which the outward is expressive of the inward: in which form reveals.
Only that is spiritual which makes its own form. If I may not find its secret within myself, I shall never find it: if I have not got it already, it will never come to me.
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise what that means.
Terrible as was what the world did to me, what I did to myself was far more terrible still.
Been re-reading Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis (again).