I wash my hands of those who imagine chattering to be knowledge, silence to be ignorance, and affection to be art.

I would not exchange the laughter of my heart for the fortunes of the multitudes.

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and then is heard no more.

The truly just is he who feels half guilty of your misdeeds.

All work is empty save when there is love.

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.