Beauty is only the start of bearable terror.

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.

Irony: Don't let yourself be controlled by it, especially during uncreative moments.

The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. I feel closer to what language can't reach. With my senses, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven... in the ponds broken off from the sky. . .

Our task is to take this earth so deeply and wholly into ourselves that it will resurrect within our being.

The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.

Thus we live, forever taking leave.