Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.
Every angel is terrifying.
It is part of the nature of every definitive love that sooner or later it can reach the beloved only in infinity.
Art too is just a way of living.
Truly to sing, that is a different breath.
I think of you often, dear, and with such concentrated wishes that it really must help you in some way.
It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning.
If only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful.
Perhaps then, some day far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
All things want to float.
To have a childhood means to live a thousand lives before the one.
Just keep going – no feeling is final.
A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.
Everything terrible is something that needs our love.
But because truly being here is so much; because everything here apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
Be-and yet know the great void where all things begin, the infinite source of your own most intense vibration, so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent.
Do not be bewildered by the surfaces: in the depths all becomes law.
Someday there will be girls and women whose name will no longer mean the mere opposite of the male, but something in itself, something that makes one think not of any complement and limit, but only life and reality: the female human being.
Nothing strange should befall us, but only that which has long belonged to us. We will gradually learn to realize that that which we call destiny goes forth from within people, not from without into them.
Look, we don’t love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms.