"There is an emptiness within the human breast, a hunger for we hardly know what, that is the deepest and wildest of all desires. It is the falling in love with life, the dark deep flow below the surface. Subtle, crude, beautiful, terrible. A few have dared to open their arms to it, to plunge into it, and always they are wounded and humiliated; but they have been touched, have been caressed by those fiery fingers that curved the universe, and there remains about them a breadth, a spaciousness, a warmth of genius.
...the wounds are as precious to me as the ecstasy. For both bring me close to that lovely, terrible, profligate, austere thing that is life. To love, that is all that matters. To lavish love even on objects unworthy of it is infinitely better than living a cold, ordered life in a study, in an office, or even in a garden tending flowers. It is only through opening one's arms to life that one will find the ultimate peace and security. Only through suffering and loving. There is no short-cut. Protecting oneself against life is not peace but death. Of all the strage varied people I have met it has not been the sinners, the degraded, the drunkards, the gamblers, the crooks, the harlots who have made me shudder, but the dead, the respectable dead; cut off like a branch from the tree.
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