Perhaps creating something is nothing but an act of profound remembrance.

A birdsong can even, for a moment, make the whole world into a sky within us, because we feel that the bird does not distinguish between its heart and the world's.

How I will cherish you then, you grief-torn nights! Had I only received you, inconsolable sisters, on more abject knees, only buried myself with more abandon in your loosened hair. How we waste our afflictions! We study them, stare out beyond them into bleak continuance, hoping to glimpse some end. Whereas they're really our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one of the seasons of the clandestine year -- ; not only a season --: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.

... be indulgent toward those who ... are afraid of the aloneness that you trust.

Whoever you are, go out into the evening, leaving your room, of which you know every bit; your house is the last before the infinite, whoever you are.

Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing so little to be reached as with criticism.

You are also the physician who must watch over yourself. But in the course of every illness there are many days in which the physician can do nothing but wait.