Perhaps everything terrifying is deep down a helpless thing that needs our help.

Your life will still find its own paths from there, and that they may be good, rich, and wide is what I wish for you, more than I can say.

I am touched by your beautiful anxiety about life.

This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love: the more they give, the more they possess.

I think of you often, dear, and with such concentrated wishes that it really must help you in some way.

Stand up during supper and walk outdoors, and keep on walking.

How I will cherish you then, you grief-torn nights! Had I only received you, inconsolable sisters, on more abject knees, only buried myself with more abandon in your loosened hair. How we waste our afflictions! We study them, stare out beyond them into bleak continuance, hoping to glimpse some end. Whereas they'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.