Every angel is terrifying.

Harshness vanished. A sudden softness has replaced the meadows' wintry grey. Little rivulets of water changed their singing accents. Tendernesses, hesitantly, reach toward the earth from space, and country lanes are showing these unexpected subtle risings that find expression in the empty trees.

If no one else, the dying must notice how unreal, how full of pretense, is all that we accomplish here, where nothing is allowed to be itself.

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.

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

There is only one journey. Going inside yourself.

Joy is a marvelous increasing of what exists, a pure addition out of nothingness.