Be, in this immensity of night, the magic force at your sense’s crossroad...
You, darkness, of whom I am born- I love you more than the flame that limits the world to the circle it illumines and excludes the rest.
I am a house gutted by fire where only the guilty sometimes sleep before the punishment that devours them hounds them out in the open.
Our task is to listen to the news that is always arriving out of silence.
Young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it.
The moments when something new has entered us, something unknown; our feelings grow mute in shy embarrassment, everything in us withdraws, a silence arises, and the new experience, which no one knows, stands in the midst of it all and says nothing.
Since I’ve learned to be silent, everything has come so much closer to me.
Just as the creative artist is not allowed to choose, neither is he permitted to turn his back on anything: a single refusal, and he is cast out of the state of grace and becomes sinful all the way through.
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.