And you should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to move out of it.

Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, Must I write?

For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible.

We are unutterably alone essentially, especially in the things most intimate and most important.

True singing is a different breath, about nothing.

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.

Earth, is not this what you will: in us to rise up invisible? Is it, O Earth, not your dream once to be wholly invisible? Earth! Invisible! What, if not change, is your desperate mission?