Art Quotes - Page 742

There is no harvest for the heart alone. The seed of love must be eternally re-sown.

Don't aim for success if you want it; just do what you love and believe in, and it will come naturally. Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart.

Riches can all be lost, but that happiness in your own heart can only be veiled, and it will bring you happiness again, as long as you live.

I care nothing for all the political parties in the world except as they stand for justice.

Lament is a cry of belief in a good God, a God who has His ear to our hearts, a God who transfigures the ugly into beauty. Complaint is the bitter howl of unbelief in any benevolent God in this moment, a distrust in the love-beat of the Father's heart.

Beauty doesn't matter because in the end, we all lose our looks and all we have is our heart.

The things that don't happen to us that we'll never know didn't happen to us. The nonstories. The extra minute to find the briefcase that makes you late to the spot where a tractor trailer mauled another car instead of yours. The woman you didn't meet because she couldn't get a taxi to the party you had to leave early from. All of life is a series of nonstories if you look at it that way. We just don't know what they are.

I, in the end, make art for myself.

His touch both consoles and devastates me; I feel my heart pulse, then wither, naked as a stone on the roaring mattress while the lovely, moony night slides through the window to dapple the flanks of this innocent who makes cages to keep the sweet birds in. Eat me, drink me; thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden, I go back and back to him to have his fingers strip the tattered skin away and clothe me in his dress of water, this garment that drenches me, its slithering odour, its capacity for drowning.

The very beating of your heart has meaning and purpose. Your actions have value far greater than silver or gold.

Feminist art... will take the great human themes – love, death, heroism, suffering, history itself – and render them fully human.

The art of reading is in great part that of acquiring a better understanding of life from one's encounter with it in a book.

The great Christian art did not die because all possible forms had been used up; it died because faith was being transformed into piety. Now, the same conquest of the outside world that brought in our modern individualism, so different from that of the Renaissance, is by way of relativizing the individual. It is plain to see that man's faculty of transformation, which began by a remaking of the natural world, has ended by calling man himself into question.

A work of art has value only if tremors of the future run through it.

I looked upon a clock to find the truth. The hours were passing like ivory chess figures, striking piano notes, and the minutes raced on wires mounted like tin soldiers. Hours like tall ebony women with gongs between their legs, tolling continuously so that I could not count them. I heard the rolling of my heart-beats; I heard the footsteps of my dreams, and the beat of time was lost among them like the face of truth.

Love doesn't reside in the heart, anyway. Love resides in the liver along with jaundice.

If I myself dominate myself, if my thoughts revolve round myself, if I am so occupied with myself I rarely have "a heart at leisure from itself," then I know nothing of Calvary love.

Art is food for the soul, and an artistic climate is a healthy climate because it breeds empathy.

The fact is, the heart and mind aren't always friendly. And in my case, they're barely speaking.

Architecture is not merely national but clearly has local ties in that it is rooted in the earth.

An artist should have more than two eyes.

Imbodied spirits constitute the mankind. It is not restricted to the earth only but instead it inhabits all the worlds in space.

Sycophancy toward those who hold power is a fact in every regime, and especially in a democracy, where, unlike tyranny, there is an accepted principle of legitimacy that breaks the inner will to resist.... Flattery of the people and incapacity to resist public opinion are the democratic vices, particularly among writers, artists, journalists and anyone else who is dependent on an audience.

HELPED are those who laugh with a pure heart; theirs will be the company of the jolly righteous.

Sex is perhaps like culture - a luxury that only becomes an art after generations of leisurely acquaintance. Why we scarcely approach either as individuals - it's mass propulsion still!