If your everyday life appears to be unworthy subject matter, do not complain to life. Complain to yourself, Lament that you are not poet enough to call up its wealth.

Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings.

Fame, that public destruction of one in process of becoming, into whose building-ground the mob breaks, displacing his stones.

Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were behind you, like the winter that has just gone by. For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter that only by wintering through it will your heart survive.

Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.

There is only one journey. Going inside yourself.

Embrace your solitude and love it. Endure the pain it causes, and try to sing out with it. For those near to you are distant.