Let your beauty manifest itself without talking and calculation.​ You are silent. It says for you: I am. And comes in meaning thousandfold​, comes at long last over everyone.

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

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.

We are the bees of the invisible. We madly gather the honey of the visible to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.

Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

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

Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, Must I write?