Where something becomes extremely difficult and unbearable, there we also stand always already quite near its transformation.

The necessary thing is after all but this; solitude, great inner solitude. Going into oneself for hours meeting no one - this one must be able to attain.

My blood is alive with many voices telling me I am made of longing.

God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night. These are the words we dimly hear: You, sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing. Embody me. Flare up like a flame and make big shadows I can move in. Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Don't let yourself lose me. Nearby is the country they call life. You will know it by its seriousness. Give me your hand.

If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing . . . then you are a writer.

Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

Winning does not tempt that man. This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings.