Where I create, there I am true.

Someday you will name me, then gently place those burning holy roses in my hair.

Learn to love the questions themselves.

If my devils are to leave me, I'm afraid my angels will take flight as well.

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

Whoever you are: in the evening step out of your room, where you know everything; yours is the last house before the far-off: whoever you are. With your eyes, which in their weariness barely free themselves from the worn-out threshold, you lift very slowly one black tree and place it against the sky: slender, alone. And you have made the world. And it is huge and like a word which grows ripe in silence. And as your will seizes on its meaning, tenderly your eyes let it go.

Everyone once, once only. Just once and no more. And we also once. Never again. But this having been once, although only once, to have been of the earth, seems irrevocable.