What is written is merely the dregs of experience.

The true way goes over a rope which is not stretched at any great height but just above the ground. It seems more designed to make people stumble than to be walked upon.

First impressions are always unreliable.

Simply wait, be quiet, still The world will freely offer itself to you.

Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.

Being alone has a power over me that never fails. My interior dissolves (for the time being only superficially) and is ready to release what lies deeper. When I am willfully alone, a slight ordering of my interior begins to take place and I need nothing more.

I can love only what I can place so high above me that I cannot reach it.