Works of Art are of an infinite loneliness.
We must accept our reality as vastly as we possibly can; everything, even the unprecedented, must be possible within it.
What we fight with is so small, and when we win, it makes us small. What we want is to be defeated, decisively, by successively greater things.
Be out of sync with your times for just one day, and you will see how much eternity you contain within you.
Huge lemons, cut in slices, would sink like setting suns into the dusky sea, softly illuminating it with their radiating membranes, and its clear, smooth surface aquiver from the rising bitter essence.
Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing so little to be reached as with criticism.
I know of no other advice than this: Go within and scale the depths of your being from which your very life springs forth.
Shattered people are best represented by bits and pieces.
Look: the trees exist; the houses we dwell in stand there stalwartly. Only we pass by it all, like a rush of air. And everything conspires to keep quiet about us, half out of shame perhaps, half out of some secret hope.
Destiny itself is like a wonderful wide tapestry in which every thread is guided by an unspeakable tender hand, placed beside another thread and held and carried by a hundred others.
She who reconciles the ill-matched threads Of her life, and weaves them gratefully Into a single cloth – It’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall And clears it for a different celebration.
And you should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to move out of it.
Take your well-disciplined strengths, stretch them between the two great opposing poles, because inside human beings is where God learns.
I am the rest between two notes which are somehow always in discord.
Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy of being No-one’s sleep under so many lids.
If no one else, the dying must notice how unreal, how full of pretense, is all that we accomplish here, where nothing is allowed to be itself.
There may be good, but there are no pleasant marriages.
He reproduced himself with so much humble objectivity, with the unquestioning, matter of fact interest of a dog who sees himself in a mirror and thinks: there’s another dog.
One had to take some action against fear when once it laid hold of one.
There are quantities of human beings, but there are many more faces, for each person has several.