When we are only victorious over small things, it leaves us feeling small.

True singing is a different breath, about nothing.

Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy of being No-one's sleep under so many lids.

Let everything happen to you Beauty and terror Just keep going No feeling is final

This above all-ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple "I must," then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it. Then draw near to Nature. Then try, like some first human being, to say what you see and experience and love and lose.

What we do battle with is so small, what battles us is so large.

Your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes, far in the distance.