Error is the price we pay for progress.

We hire for perfect, we manage for perfect, we measure for perfect, and we reward for perfect. So why are we surprised that people spend their precious minutes of self-directed, focused work time trying to achieve perfect? The problem is simple: Art is never defect-free. Things that are remarkable never meet spec, because that would make them standardized, not worth talking about.

The price for his intactness was incompleteness.

The imperfect is our paradise.

The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.

Perfection in anything is unbearably dull. Myself, I prefer a touch of imperfection.

Perfect, he, as a lover, might have called them off-hand. But no — they were not perfect. and it was the touch of the imperfect upon the would-be perfect that gave the sweetness, because it was that which gave the humanity.

A certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect.

We’re all different and we’re all imperfect, and the imperfections are what makes each of us and our work interesting.

Perfection is the willingness to be imperfect.

For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain

But surely for everything you love you have to pay some price.

Resposibility is the price of greatness.

The price of greatness is responsibility.