Don't you know that every perfect life would be the end of art?

... for the modern soul, for which it is mere child's play to bridge oceans and continents, there is nothing so impossible as to find the contact with the souls dwelling just around the corner.

One does what one is; one becomes what one does.

Life forms a surface that acts as if it could not be otherwise, but under its skin things are pounding and pulsing.

The thought is not something that observes an inner event, but, rather it is this inner event itself. We do not reflect on something, but, rather, something thinks itself in us.

We sometimes have a flash of understanding that amounts to the insight of genius, and yet it slowly withers, even in our hands - like a flower. The form remains, but the colours and the fragrance are gone.

The truth is not a crystal that can be slipped into one's pocket, but an endless current into which one falls headlong.