Nature has a language of its own, or maybe those who have lived long in solitude read in it their own unconscious inner feelings and mysterious foreknowledge.

Suffering raises up those souls that are truly great; it is only small souls that are made mean-spirited by it.

All things are aggregations of atoms that dance & by their movement produce sound. When the rhythm of the dance changes, the sound it produces also changes... Each atom perpetually sings its song, and the sound at every moment creates dense subtle forms.

Work cannot convey the almost voluptuous sweetness of the feelings experienced ... in solitude.

Landscapes have a language of their own, expressing the soul of the things, lofty or humble, which constitute them, from the mighty peaks to the smallest of the tiny flowers hidden in the meadow's grass.

Who knows the flower best? - the one who reads about it in a book, or the one who finds it wild on the mountainside?

There is nothing truly serious in life. All words sound hollow when one listens to them carefully.