Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Look, we don't love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms.
It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning.
you are not too old and it is not too late to dive into your increasing depths where life calmly gives out it's own secret
As the arrow endures the string, and in the gathering momentum becomes more than itself. Because to stay is to be nowhere.
Some day when I lose you, will you still be able to sleep, without me to whisper over you like a crown of linden branches?
Don't observe yourself too closely. Don't be too quick to draw conclusions from what happens to you; simply let it happen.
I know of no other advice than this: Go within and scale the depths of your being from which your very life springs forth.
It is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be a reason the more for us to do it.
We make our way through Everything like thread passing through fabric, giving shape to images that we ourselves do not know.
Everything that makes more of you than you have ever been, even in your best hours, is right. Every intensification is good.
How can I keep my soul in me, so that it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise it high enough, past you, to other things?
Those tasks that have been entrusted to us are difficult; almost everything serious is difficult; and everything is serious.
Where something becomes extremely difficult and unbearable, there we also stand always already quite near its transformation.
Embrace your solitude and love it. Endure the pain it causes, and try to sing out with it. For those near to you are distant.
The creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.
This is what the things can teach us: to fall, patiently to trust our heaviness. Even a bird has to do that before he can fly.
Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings.
Fame, that public destruction of one in process of becoming, into whose building-ground the mob breaks, displacing his stones.
I am like a child who awakes At the light, so safe and secureFree from night's fears when dawn breaks, In Thee I am ever secure.
Do not, do not, do not books for ever hammer at people like perpetual bells? When, between two books, silent sky appears: be glad
We are the bees of the invisible. We madly gather the honey of the visible to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.
Your preparation for the real world is not in the answers you’ve learned, but in the questions you’ve learned how to ask yourself.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you, takes us together like a violin's bow, which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
To be loved means to be consumed. To love is to give light with inexhaustible oil. To be loved is to pass away, to love is to endure.
And you should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to move out of it.
Poetic power is great, strong as a primitive instinct; it has its own unyielding rhythms in itself and breaks out as out of mountains.
And you suddenly know: It was here! You pull yourself together, and there stands an irrevocable year of anguish and vision and prayer.
I am a house gutted by fire where only the guilty sometimes sleep before the punishment that devours them hounds them out in the open.
To be in circumstances that are working upon us, that from time to time place us in front of great natural Things - that is all we need.
You, darkness, of whom I am born- I love you more than the flame that limits the world to the circle it illumines and excludes the rest.
A person isn't who they are during the last conversation you had with them - they're who they've been throughout your whole relationship.
Take your well-disciplined strengths, stretch them between the two great opposing poles, because inside human beings is where God learns.
The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with the noise.
Your life will still find its own paths from there, and that they may be good, rich, and wide is what I wish for you, more than I can say.
Earth, my dearest, oh believe me, you no longer need your springtimes to win me over...Unspeakably, I have belonged to you, from the flush.
All emotions are pure which gather you and lift you up; that emotion is impure which seizes only one side of your being and so distorts you.
Your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes, far in the distance.
More unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.
most people come to know only one corner of their room, one spot near the window, one narrow strip on which they keep walking back and forth.
You must think that something is happening upon you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall.
If no one else, the dying must notice how unreal, how full of pretense, is all that we accomplish here, where nothing is allowed to be itself.
What we fight with is so small, and when we win, it makes us small. What we want is to be defeated, decisively, by successively greater things
Love the questions themselves...Live the questions now and have confidence that someday far into the future, [I will live my] way into the answer.
Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.
In the night, I wish to speak with the angel to find out if she recognizes my eyes, if she will ask me: do you see Eden? And I’ll reply: Eden burns.
But your solitude will be a support and a home for you, even in the midst of very unfamiliar circumstances, and from it you will find all your paths.
Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.
Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism. Only love can touch and hold them and be fair to them.
A billion stars go spinning through the night, / glittering above your head, / But in you is the presence that will be / when all the stars are dead.
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.