Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.