Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander on the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while dry leaves are blowing.

Trees do not force their sap, nor does the flower push its bloom.

Somewhere there is an ancient enmity between our daily life and the great work. Help me in saying it, to understand it.

Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were behind you.

What happens most deeply inside you is worthy of your whole love.

A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.

Why don't you conceive of God as an ally who is coming, who has been approaching since time began, the one who will someday arrive, the fruit of a tree whose leaves we are? Why not project his birth into the future, and live your life as an excruciating and lyrical moment in the history of a prodigious pregnancy?