Perhaps then, some day far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

Beauty is only the start of bearable terror.

You must give birth to your images. They are the future waiting to be born. Fear not the strangeness you feel. The future must enter you long before it happens. Just wait for the birth, for the the hour of the new clarity.

No, no, one can imagine nothing in the world, not the least thing. Everything is composed of so many isolated details that are not to be foreseen. In one's imagining one passes over them and hasty as one is doesn't notice that they are missing. But realities are slow and indescribably detailed.

I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language.

Swells, Marina? we ocean, depths, Marina? we sky!

You, darkness, of whom I am born- I love you more than the flame that limits the world to the circle it illumines and excludes the rest.