Whatever a human being makes and makes live, it lives because of the life he puts into it.

The modern pantheist not only sees the god in everything, he takes photographs of it.

The mystery of the evening-star brilliant in silence and distance between the downward-surging plunge of the sun and the vast, hollow seething of inpouring night. The magnificence of the watchful morning-star, that watches between the night and the day, the gleaming clue to the two opposites.

Naught is possessed, neither gold, nor land nor love, nor life, nor peace, nor even sorrow nor death, nor yet salvation. Say of nothing: It is mine. Say only: It is with me.

Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes one's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were slurred over.

For to desire is better than to possess, the finality of the end was dreaded as deeply as it was desired.

Don't you find it a beautiful clean thought, a world empty of people, just uninterrupted grass, and a hare sitting up?