I think of you often, dear, and with such concentrated wishes that it really must help you in some way.

It was not in me It came and went I wanted to hold it It was held by wine (I no longer know what it was)

If no one else, the dying must notice how unreal, how full of pretense, is all that we accomplish here, where nothing is allowed to be itself.

Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.

To be loved means to be consumed. To love is to give light with inexhaustible oil. To be loved is to pass away, to love is to endure.

All this hurrying soon will be over. Only when we tarry do we touch the holy.

God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night. These are the words we dimly hear: You, sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing. Embody me. Flare up like a flame and make big shadows I can move in. Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Don't let yourself lose me. Nearby is the country they call life. You will know it by its seriousness. Give me your hand.