For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst?

All that spirits desire, spirits attain.

You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.

Your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes itself the fetter of a greater freedom.

Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me? A seeker of silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?

The poet is a bird of strange moods. He descends from his lofty domain to tarry among us, singing; if we do not honor him he will unfold his wings and fly back to his dwelling place.

Art is a step in the known toward the unknown