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

No, no, one can imagine nothing in the world, not the least thing. Everything is composed of so many isolated details that are not to be foreseen. In one's imagining one passes over them and hasty as one is doesn't notice that they are missing. But realities are slow and indescribably detailed.

you are not too old and it is not too late to dive into your increasing depths where life calmly gives out it's own secret

The future enters into us, in order to transform itself in us, long before it happens.

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

Deeply I go down into myself. My god is Dark and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence.

All things want to float.