The relationship to one's fellow man is the relationship of prayer, the relationship to oneself is the relationship of striving; it is from prayer that one draws the strength for one's striving.

My grandfather used to say: Life is astoundingly short. To me, looking back over it, life seems so foreshortened that I scarcely understand, for instance, how a young man can decide to ride over to the next village without being afraid that -not to mention accidents- even the span of a normal happy life may fall far short of the time needed for such a journey.

You need not even listen, just wait...the world will offer itself freely to you, unmasking itself.

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

The existence of the writer is an argument against the existence of the soul, for the soul has obviously taken flight from the real ego, but not improved itself, only become a writer.

At that point I asked myself: How is it that she is not amazed at herself, that she keeps her lips closed and makes no such remark?

By imposing too great a responsibility, or rather, all responsibility, on yourself, you crush yourself.