To be an artist means not to compute or count.

Whoever you are, go out into the evening, leaving your room, of which you know every bit; your house is the last before the infinite, whoever you are.

I want to love the things as no one has thought to love them.

Harshness vanished. A sudden softness has replaced the meadows' wintry grey. Little rivulets of water changed their singing accents. Tendernesses, hesitantly, reach toward the earth from space, and country lanes are showing these unexpected subtle risings that find expression in the empty trees.

For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.

In one creative thought a thousand forgotten nights of love revive, filling it with sublimity and exaltation.

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