Best 61 quotes of Anthony Marais on MyQuotes

Infatuation is measured in pleasure. Love is measured in pain. Behold the value of pain!

No philosopher was ever apathetic. If there is no love, it is not philosophy.

Novelty does not require intelligence, but ignorance, which is why the young excel in this branch.

Race should be seen in one way, and one way only: on your marks, get set, go!

Stereotypes are based on the idea that two heads are bigger than one.

The key to writing is something to be stolen. How else does one open the door to a house of thieves?

To imagine the world without gods and religion is reasonable enough; to imagine mankind without them is an entirely different matter.

We are not born with a need for knowledge, but a hunger for it. Eve bit the apple and it has been gluttony ever since.

A creative life has nothing to do with where you’re from or how much money you earn. It’s merely a reflection of the creative intellect.

A joke is a question of mind over manner.

Art is aesthetic communication of the soul—in fact, it’s the best of that communication—and taken in its entirety has formed a body of work to stand alongside Science and Religion as one of the three great constructs of culture to aid the individual in his or her struggle to survive in Nature.

Cockroach: What is war? Man: How we lost the human race.

Contemplation and writing demand solitude, which leads to a sorry feeling of isolation and detachment. Writers try to call their loneliness genius, and the world believes them most of the time.

Creating a piece of writing is really the easiest thing in the world—about as natural as creating excrement (and many writers will, indeed, describe their work as such).

Culture preaches monogamy while Nature repeats it—over and over again.

Everyone thinks alchemy is dead, but alchemists live among us—they are called editors: adept in the art of transformation, they practice arcane methods of selection, deletion and synthesis to take what is base and produce gold.

Fireworks: we shoot them off gaily while our dogs hide under the bed. Philosophers are dogs!

Gape long enough into a looking glass and you’ll eventually see beauty. The same can be said of self-analysis, and as soon as one apes oneself, a second monkey is born.

Homosexuality is the most beautiful aspect of humanity. For its existence is proof that altruism is natural; it is to demonstrate that the theory of the “survival of the fittest” can only apply to the species as a whole, and that reproduction is insufficient to secure our place in the great jungle of life, which means being nice is a more stable evolutionary strategy than making kids; and if the homosexual is attracted to religion or to art—or, in smaller societies, to shamanism or caring for other people’s children—is this not due to his or her search for purpose? If so, then what we call purpose must be something that encompasses all modes of life. What we call love must be greater than child rearing or caring for a mate.

Humanity is as horrified and repulsed by real nature as it is by real death. Thus, we strike back against this formidable opponent with our sharpest weapon: our imagination. From this noble tool—born of necessity and elevated to beauty—culture was born, and the war against nature begun.

Human nature is, and will always be, indelibly stamped by weakness. Indeed, we are so bound to our own defeat that it has become the means of our development.

Identity seems to be non-existent at a personal level—at best we can end up in a minority, and those who discuss it most are just those people who are aware of its absence in themselves.

If an artist wants to be original, he should not look to art for inspiration, for art seeks its model in life, not art—and only life is rich enough to simulate originality.

If culture were clothing, it would be more like negligee than a parka. That’s why it’s so sexy.

If one chews a problem over long enough, it becomes apparent that the jaw is aching, and what started as weighing heavy on the heart ends up a pain in the neck.

In California depth is measured in feet: six feet on one end of the pool and three feet on the other.

Is it not ignorance that we share? A lie takes two. The truth we find alone.

It goes without saying that mastering a skill engenders a sense of satisfaction, but the feeling is ephemeral and dissipates once on the plateau of competency; because this kind of satisfaction is directed toward yourself, whereas the investment of learning about the world is repaid in love—a love of the world, a joy of living, which is permanent and will last till the grave.

It is said that the depressive has a clearer view of reality than does the euphoric. Perhaps, but the euphoric has a clearer view of life.

It’s always the bastard who is most patriotic.

It’s not words, but years we should be editing. Remember: time spent on bad art is a form of redundancy, doing the same thing twice is a form of tautology, and wasting precious moments complaining about life is a form of pleonasm. We should all learn to live our lives concisely.

Literature is the product of a deep-seated need for honesty. Hence, those who lie most are struck most deeply by it, and those who are honest have no need for it.

Most parents are so convinced of their little darling’s innocence that, by proxy, in rallying for junior’s purity they come to believe in their own innocence—as if duplicating oneself will make a right!

Nothing distresses the civilized person like unfettered nature. The Grand Canyon seen from behind the railing is indeed a splendid sight, but as soon as the desert reclaims your golf course that is another matter altogether.

Our most cultural state is one of total certainty—which is the reason those of us who are most certain are those who are most out of touch with nature (i.e., reality).

Physiologically, the union of two opposites is a pleasurable affair. Why should the psyche be any different?

Proximity to reality induces feelings of emptiness, horror and depression. Do not approach it alone.

Reflection is nothing more than what it sounds, and pondering one’s own life is about as productive as talking to one’s image in a mirror: both acts are egocentric and neither produces a dialog. People who talk to themselves in public are not self-actualized; they're crazy.

Sexual harassment is using what Nature gave us to take what isn’t ours. It’s an act of violence not only against an individual, but the group—and it inevitably meets with the wrath of the group.

So many dream of travel without having an idea of its reality: a language sounds exotic only when you don’t understand it, and a culture appears better than your own only when you aren’t in it.

So many fear death—spending their precious waking hours discussing it—while failing to notice that deep sleep is no different. It’s as if they don’t hear Mother Nature telling them not to worry every day.

Temptation is the voice of reason without its clothes on.

The awe-inspiring beauty of nature is nothing more than being flabbergasted by our ignorance of it. Good art produces the same effect; and the worst thing an artist can do is to follow the herd, because domesticated art is about as dynamic as a domesticated animal.

The closer art reflects reality, the less artistic it becomes. Art is most enticing when it mimics life as a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. The contrary is always a grave disappointment.

The desire for continuity is a side-effect of the consciousness of mortality. The desire for meaning is a side-effect of the consciousness of triviality. Hence, consciousness is paid for with an exaggerated focus on sex and work; and those of us who ponder life find these two topics creeping into every discussion.

The hermit is he who needs a friend, and in the absence of a community has befriended himself.

The price of maturity is exorbitant these days. Paying for wisdom with money is one thing, but when time becomes the currency, it’s your life at stake.

The profound experience of childbirth does not produce profound people. If this were so, the guy with ten kids would be a prophet and priests would be out of work.

The psyche exists (quite happily, one might add) on an entirely different plane than the body: whereas the body is inextricably bound to time, degrading day-by-day on its 85-year death trek, the psyche is, indeed, ageless, blending its memories into a single unit. It simply collects information—and “maturing” is really nothing more than a judgement of the quality of that information.

There is nothing more blinding than having seen the light, and nothing more tiresome than sharing it.