Look, we don't love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms.

We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.

The most visible joy can only reveal itself to us when we've transformed it, within.

Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism. Only love can touch and hold them and be fair to them.

That is the principal thing-not to remain with the dream, with the intention, with the being-in-the-mood, but always forcibly to convert it all into things.

Be out of sync with your times for just one day, and you will see how much eternity you contain within you.

But because truly being here is so much; because everything here apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.