Just think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.

It would have been so pointless to kill himself that, even if he had wanted to, the pointlessness would have made him unable.

I am away from home and must always write home, even if any home of mine has long since floated away into eternity.

Anything that has real and lasting value is always a gift from within.

My doubts stand in a circle around every word, I see them before I see the word, but what then! I do not see the word at all, I invent it.

Knowledge we have. Anyone who strives for it with particular intensity is suspect of striving against it.

The observer of the soul cannot penetrate into the soul, but there doubtless is a margin where he comes into contact with it. Recognition of this contact is the fact that even the soul does not know of itself. Hence it must remain unknown. That would be sad only if there were anything apart from the soul, but there is nothing else.