Our task is to listen to the news that is always arriving out of silence.

Isn't it time that these most ancient sorrows of ours grew fruitful? Time that we tenderly loosed ourselves from the loved one, and, unsteadily, survived: the way the arrow, suddenly all vector, survives the string to be more than itself. For abiding is nowhere.

If we surrendered to earth's intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees.

I love the dark hours of my being. My mind deepens into them. There I can find, as in old letters, the days of my life, already lived, and held like a legend, and understood.

Of all my books, I find only a few indispensible.

Nothing touches a work of art so little as criticism.

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