It wasn't his, it wasn't my fault, we both had nothing except patience, but Death has none. I saw him come (how meanly!) and I watched him as he took and took: none of it I could claim as mine.

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

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 are not permitted to linger, even with what is most intimate.

Who has not sat before his own heart's curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart.

There are moments in which a rose is more important than a piece of bread

the knowledge of impermanence that haunts our days is their very fragrance.