And yet, for some time now I have believed that it is our own force, all our own force that is still too great for us. It is true we do not know it; but is it not just that which is most our own of which we know the least?

You must think that something is happening upon you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall.

It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning.

Children are still the way you were as a child, sad and happy in just the same way-and if you think of your childhood, you once again live among them, among the solitary children.

Who speaks of conquering? To endure is everything.

Truly to sing, that is a different breath.

a kind of memory that tells us that what we're now striving for was once nearer and truer and attached to us with infinite tenderness. Here all is distance, there it was breath. After the first home the second one seems draughty and strangely sexed.