Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing so little to be reached as with criticism.

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

No, no, one can imagine nothing in the world, not the least thing. Everything is composed of so many isolated details that are not to be foreseen. In one's imagining one passes over them and hasty as one is doesn't notice that they are missing. But realities are slow and indescribably detailed.

We make our way through Everything like thread passing through fabric, giving shape to images that we ourselves do not know.

But there is much beauty here, because there is much beauty everywhere.

There are so many things about which some old man ought to tell one while one is little; for when one is grown one would know them as a matter of course.

To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. Love is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world for himself for another's sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things.