A collection of a hundred great brains makes one big fathead.

I am no longer alone with myself, and I can only artificially recall the scary and beautiful feeling of solitude. This is the shadow side of the fortune of love.

Real work is completed in silence and strikes a chord in the minds of only a very few.

For the alchemist the one primarily in need of redemption is not man, but the deity who is lost and sleeping in matter.

From the middle of life onward, only he remains vitally alive who is ready to die with life.

Nobody, as long as he moves about among the chaotic currents of life, is without trouble.

The dream arises from a part of the mind unknown to us, but none the less important, and is concerned with the desires for the approaching day.