Now, one cannot read nonsense with impunity.

Winter changes into stone the water of heaven and the heart of man.

No one knows like a woman how to say things which are at once gentle and deep.

Sometimes he used a spade in his garden, and sometimes he read and wrote. He had but one name for these two kinds of labor; he called them gardening. ‘The Spirit is a garden,’ said he

These are dark radiances. They have no suspicion that they are to be pitied. Certainly they are so. He who does not weep does not see. They are to be admired and pitied, as one would both pity and admire a being at once night and day, without eyes beneath his lashes but with a star on his brow.

God was bored by him.

Genius is a promontory jutting out into the infinite.