Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings.

In the difficult are the friendly forces, the hands that work on us.

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.

Don't be too quick to draw conclusions from what happens to you; simply let it happen. Otherwise it will be too easy for you to look with blame... at your past, which naturally has a share with everything that now meets you.

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.

Our heart always transcends us.

Those doves below, the ones utterly cared for, never endangered ones, cannot know tenderness.