My eyes already touch the sunny hill. Going far ahead of the road I have begun. So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp; it has inner light, even from a distance- and charges us, even if we do not reach it, into something else, which, hardly sensing it, we already are; a gesture waves us on answering our own wave... but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

If we surrendered to earth's intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees.

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

Thus we live, forever taking leave.

To be loved means to be consumed. To love is to give light with inexhaustible oil. To be loved is to pass away, to love is to endure.

Speaking of August Rodin: He raised his world above us in an immense arc, and made it a part of nature.

I implore those who love me to love my solitude.