Art is for the artist is only suffering through which he releases himself for further suffering.

It requires enormous presence of mind or rather quickness of wit, when opening your eyes to seize hold as it were of everything in the room at exactly the same place where you had let it go on the previous evening. That is why the moment of waking up was the riskiest moment of the day. Once that was well over without deflecting you from your orbit, you could take heart of grace for the rest of the day.

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

And I leave my post of observation and find I have had enough of this outside life; I feel that there is nothing more that I can learn here, either now or at any time. And I long to say a last goodbye to everything up here, to go down into my burrow never to return again, let things take their course, and not try to retard them with my profitless vigils.

Books are a narcotic.

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

He who seeks does not find, but he who does not seek will be found.