The world speaks to me in colors, my soul answers in music.

If someone smells a flower and says he does not understand, the reply to him is: there is nothing to understand, it is only a scent. If he persists, saying: that I know, but what does it all mean? Then one has either to change the subject, or make it more abstruse by saying that the scent is the shape which the universal joy takes in the flower.

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.

That I exist is a perpetual surprise which is life.

That which oppresses me, is it my soul trying to come out in the open, or the soul of the world knocking at my heart for entrance?

Life's aspirations come in the guise of children.

If you allow your mind to carp at all and sundry, it will turn against itself: the majority of our sorrows are self-inflicted.