and I circle ten thousand years long; And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song

Painting is something that takes place among the colors, and one has to leave them alone completely, so that they can settle the matter among themselves. Their intercourse: this is the whole of painting. Whoever meddles, arranges, injects his human deliberation, his wit, his advocacy, his intellectual agility in any way, is already disturbing and clouding their activity.

But there is much beauty here, because there is much beauty everywhere.

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.

What we fight with is so small, and when we win, it makes us small. What we want is to be defeated, decisively, by successively greater things

Do not, do not, do not books for ever hammer at people like perpetual bells? When, between two books, silent sky appears: be glad

It is always what I have already said: always the wish that you may find patience enough in yourself to endure, and simplicity enough to believe; that you may acquire more and more confidence in that which is difficult, and in your solitude among others. And for the rest, let life happen to you. Believe me: life is right, in any case.