The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. I feel closer to what language can't reach. With my senses, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven... in the ponds broken off from the sky. . .

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.

Life is heavier than the weight of all things.

the knowledge of impermanence that haunts our days is their very fragrance.

My life is not this steeply sloping hour, in which you see me hurrying. Much stands behind me; I stand before it like a tree; I am only one of my many mouths, and at that, the one that will be still the soonest. I am the rest between two notes, which are somehow always in discord because Death’s note wants to climb over— but in the dark interval, reconciled, they stay there trembling. And the song goes on, beautiful.

So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp.

To work is to live without dying.