I'm thinking only of my illness and my health, though both, the first as well as the second, are you.

Love has as few problems as a motor car. The only problems are the driver, the passengers, and the road.

Art flies around truth, but with the definite intention of not getting burnt. Its capacity lies in finding in the dark void a place where the beam of light can be intensely caught, without this having been perceptible before.

If you find someone who makes you smile, who checks up on you often to see if you're okay. Who watches out or you and wants the best for you. Who loves and respects you. Don't let them go. People like that are hard to find.

From outside one will always triumphantly impress theories upon the world and then fall straight into the ditch one has dug, but only from inside will one keep oneself and the world quiet and true.

Just because your doctor has a name for your condition, doesn't mean he knows what it is.

Not everyone can see the truth, but he can be it.