I love this place; I love mountains and big skies and forests. And the weather is still supremely beautiful even though the lower peaks are powdered with fresh snow. But Heavens! What sun. It never has an ending. I am basking at this minute - half past four - too hot without a hat, & the sky is that transparent blue only to be seen in autumn - the forest trees steeped in light.

To long for everything: sorrow; to accept everything: joy.

How idiotic civilization is! Why be given a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare fiddle?

... I'd always rather be with people who loved me too little rather than with people who loved me too much.

I feel I must live alone, alone, alone - with artists only to touch the door. Every artist cuts off his ear and nails it on the outside of the door for the others to shout into.

If only one could tell true love from false love as one can tell mushrooms from toadstools.

But the more poetry one reads the more one longs to read!