Since I've learned to be silent, everything has come so much closer to me.

It is part of the nature of every definitive love that sooner or later it can reach the beloved only in infinity.

To be an artist means not to compute or count.

What is needed is, in the end, simply this: solitude, great inner solitude.

There is only one journey. Going inside yourself.

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.

May I strike my heart's keys clearly, and may none fail because of slack, uncertain, or fraying strings. May the tears that stream down my face make me more radiant: may my hidden weeping bloom.... How we waste our afflictions!... [T]hey're really our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one of the seasons of the clandestine year—; not only a season—: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.