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.

Neglecting small things under the pretext of wanting to accomplish large ones is the excuse of a coward.

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.

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

One must be very strong, or very stupid, or completely exhausted to face life with indifference.

"To fashion stars out of dog dung, that is the Great Work. To take a negative experience and, by comparing it to something worse, make it feel good, is the great skill."

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