Our final experience, like our first, is conjectural. We move between two darkness's.

Riposte of "that old lady in the anecdote who was accused by her nieces of being illogical," Logic! Good gracious! What rubbish! How can I tell what I think till I see what I say?

My conviction gains infinitely the moment another soul will believe in it.

The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected.

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

Without form, the sensitiveness vanishes.