most people come to know only one corner of their room, one spot near the window, one narrow strip on which they keep walking back and forth.

Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing so little to be reached as with criticism.

If your everyday life appears to be unworthy subject matter, do not complain to life. Complain to yourself, Lament that you are not poet enough to call up its wealth.

Bound by conventions, people tend to reach for what is easy. Here we must be unafraid of what is difficult. For all living beings in nature must unfold in their particular way and become themselves despite all opposition.

Works of Art are of an infinite loneliness.

Nothing touches a work of art so little as criticism.

Strangely, I heard a stranger say, I am with you.