Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.

The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.

Every poet depends upon generations who wrote in his native tongue; he inherits styles and forms elaborated by those who lived before him. At the same time, though, he feels that those old means of expression are not adequate to his own experience.

Not that I want to be a god or a hero. Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.

In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.

A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.

Evil grows and bears fruit, which is understandable, because it has logic and probability on its side and also, of course, strength. The resistance of tiny kernels of good, to which no one grants the power of causing far-reaching consequences, is entirely mysterious, however. Such seeming nothingness not only lasts but contains within itself enormous energy which is revealed gradually.