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

Every happiness is the child of a separation it did not think it could survive.

To work is to live without dying.

I love the dark hours of my being. My mind deepens into them. There I can find, as in old letters, the days of my life, already lived, and held like a legend, and understood.

Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander on the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while dry leaves are blowing.

Nothing strange should befall us, but only that which has long belonged to us. We will gradually learn to realize that that which we call destiny goes forth from within people, not from without into them.

What we call fate does not come into us from the outside, but emerges from us.