There are quantities of human beings, but there are many more faces, for each person has several.

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.

The highest form of love is to be the protector of another person’s solitude.

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart.

Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings.

All emotions are pure which gather you and lift you up; that emotion is impure which seizes only one side of your being and so distorts you.

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.