The highest art... sets down its creations and trusts in their magic, without fear of not being understood.

A soul that is ruined in the bud will frequently return to the springtime of its beginning and its promise-filled childhood, as though it could discover new hopes there and retie the broken threads of life. The shoots grow rapidly and eagerly, but it is only a sham life that will never be a genuine tree.

My real self wanders elsewhere, far away, wanders on and on invisibly and has nothing to do with my life.

If I know what love is, it is because of you.

In each individual the spirit is made flesh, in each one the whole of creation suffers, in each one a Savior is crucified.

...Haller's sickness of the soul, as I now know, is not the eccentricity of a single individual, but the sickness of the times themselves, the neurosis of that generation to which Haller belongs, a sickness, it seems, that by no means attacks the weak and worthless only but, rather, precisely those who are strongest in spirit and richest in gifts.

There is, so I believe, in the essence of everything, something that we cannot call learning. There is, my friend, only a knowledge - that is everywhere.