Strangely, I heard a stranger say, I am with you.

Your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes, far in the distance.

Fame, that public destruction of one in process of becoming, into whose building-ground the mob breaks, displacing his stones.

Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confidence in the storms of spring without fear that after them may come no summer

The point is to live everything.

Your life will still find its own paths from there, and that they may be good, rich, and wide is what I wish for you, more than I can say.

Thus we live, forever taking leave.