Speaking of August Rodin: He raised his world above us in an immense arc, and made it a part of nature.

Nothing touches a work of art so little as criticism.

Go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows.

Comfort me from wherever you are–alone, we are quickly worn out; if I place my head on the road, let it seem softened by you. Could it be that even from afar we offer each other a gentle breath?

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.

No experience has been too unimportant, and the smallest event unfolds like a fate, and fate itself is like a wonderful, wide fabric in which every thread is guided by an infinitely tender hand and laid alongside another thread and is held and supported by a hundred others

Young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it.