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

I don't want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie.

So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp.

What do the contours of your body mean, laid out like the lines on a hand, so that I no longer see them except as fate?

We wasters of sorrows! How we stare away into sad endurance beyond them, trying to foresee their end! Whereas they are nothing else than our winter foliage, our sombre evergreen, one of the seasons of our interior year.

Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.

You darkness, that I come from, I love you more than all the fires that fence in the world.