Weren't you always distracted by expectation, as if every event announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you going and coming and often staying all night.).

Whoever now makes himself bigger, freer and more human in his own existence, is doing his part toward peace, — as yet it must be worked at in an inward direction, not until a few have it all big and ready within them can it let itself be brought into the world.

To write rhythmic prose one must go deep into oneself and find the anonymous and multiple rhythm of the blood. Prose needs to be built like a cathedral. There, one is truly without a name, without ambition, without help; on scaffoldings, alone with one's consciousness.

All things want to float.

Think... of the world you carry within you.

Fame, that public destruction of one in process of becoming, into whose building-ground the mob breaks, displacing his stones.

We are the bees of the invisible. We madly gather the honey of the visible to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.