It was not in me It came and went I wanted to hold it It was held by wine (I no longer know what it was)

Nothing touches a work of art so little as criticism.

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

Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

And you suddenly know: It was here! You pull yourself together, and there stands an irrevocable year of anguish and vision and prayer.

We must assume our existence as broadly as we in any way can; everything, even the unheard - of, must be possible in it. This is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most inexplicable.

As the arrow endures the string, and in the gathering momentum becomes more than itself. Because to stay is to be nowhere.