It seems to me that the only way one can be helpful is to extend one's hand to someone else involuntarily, and without ever knowing how useful this will be.

Never has grief been possessed, never has love been learned, and what removes us in death is not revealed.

Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future lessens . . . . Superabundant existence wells in my heart.

Love and death are the great gifts that are given to us; mostly they are passed on unopened.

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

Be-and yet know the great void where all things begin, the infinite source of your own most intense vibration, so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent.

Isn't it time that these most ancient sorrows of ours grew fruitful? Time that we tenderly loosed ourselves from the loved one, and, unsteadily, survived: the way the arrow, suddenly all vector, survives the string to be more than itself. For abiding is nowhere.