In old age we are like a batch of letters that someone has sent. We are no longer in the past, we have arrived.

A word can be transformed into a coulour, light, a smell; it is the writer's task to use it in such a way that it serves, never fails, can never be ignored.

Do not forget, some give little, and it is much for them, others give all, and it costs them no effort; who then has given most?

What will I do when I can no longer dig?

There was a rock in front of my hut, a tall, gray rock. By its looks it seemed to be well-disposed toward me.

But now it was spring again, and spring was almost unbearable for sensitive hearts. It drove creation to its utmost limits, it wafted its spice-laden breath even into the nostrils of the innocent.

The long, long road over the moors and up into the forest - who trod it into being first of all? Man, a human being, the first that came here. There was no path before he came.