Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible.

Speaking of August Rodin: He raised his world above us in an immense arc, and made it a part of nature.

I live my life in widening circle That reach out across the world. I may not ever complete the last one, But I give myself to it. I circle around God, that primordial tower. I have been circling for thousands of years, And I still don't know: am I a falcon, A storm, or a great song? [I, 2]

Draw near to Nature. Then try like some first human being to say what you see and experience and love and lose.

There is only one solitude, and it is vast, heavy, difficult to bear, and almost everyone has hours when he would gladly exchange it for any kind of sociability, however trivial or cheap, for the tiniest outward agreement with the first person who comes along.

Be, in this immensity of night, the magic force at your sense's crossroad.