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.

My life is not this steeply sloping hour, in which you see me hurrying. Much stands behind me; I stand before it like a tree; I am only one of my many mouths, and at that, the one that will be still the soonest. I am the rest between two notes, which are somehow always in discord because Death’s note wants to climb over— but in the dark interval, reconciled, they stay there trembling. And the song goes on, beautiful.

That’s love: Two lonely persons keep each other safe and touch each other and talk to each other.

I am the rest between two notes which are somehow always in discord.

There is time only to work slowly There is no time not to love

Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future lessens . . . . Superabundant existence wells in my heart.

Embrace your solitude and love it. Endure the pain it causes, and try to sing out with it. For those near to you are distant.