From childhood on I have had the dream of life lived as a sacrament... the dream implied taking life ritually as something holy.

Who will free me from hurry, flurry, the feeling of a crowd pushing behind me, of being hustled and crushed? How can I regain even for a minute the feeling of ample leisure I had during my early, my creative years? Then I seldom felt fussed, or hurried. There was time for work, for play, for love, the confidence that if a task was not done at the appointed time, I easily could fit it into another hour. I used to take leisure for granted, as I did time itself.

I wonder whether art has a higher function than to make me feel, appreciate, and enjoy natural objects for their art value?

Miracles happen to those who believe in them.

German is of stone, limestone, pudding stone, marble, granite even, and so to a considerable degree is English, whereas French is bronze and gives out a metallic resonance with tones that neither German nor English tolerate.

Not what man knows but what man feels, concerns art. All else is science.

A complete life may be one ending in so full an identification with the oneself that there is no self left to die.