He who is sorrowful can force himself to smile, but he who is glad cannot weep.

If dead things love, if earth and water distinguish friends from enemies, I should like to possess their love. I should like the green earth not to feel my step as a heavy burden. I should like her to forgive that she for my sake is wounded by plough and harrow, and willingly to open for my dead body.

For what is man's soul but a flame? It flickers in and around the body of a man as does the flame around the rough log.

Have you ever seen a child sitting on its mother’s knee listening to fairy stories? As long as the child is told of cruel giants and of the terrible suffering of beautiful princesses, it holds its head up and its eyes open; but if the mother begins to speak of happiness and sunshine, the little one closes its eyes and falls asleep with its head against her breast. . . . I am a child like that, too. Others may like stories of flowers and sunshine; but I choose the dark nights and sad destinies.

There is always a third possibility, as long as you have the ability to find it.

It is a strange thing to come home. While yet on the journey, you cannot at all realize how strange it will be.

For, so long as there are interesting books to read, it seems to me that neither I nor anyone else, for that matter, need be unhappy.