“Many things are too delicate to be thought; many more, to be spoken.”

Accident is simply unforeseen order.

The poem of the understanding is philosophy.

Fate and temperament are the names of a concept.

The badge of honesty is simplicity.

Humanity is the higher meaning of our planet, the nerve that connects this part of it with the upper world, the eye it raises to heaven.

Every disease is a musical problem. Its cure a musical solution. The more rapid and complete the solution, the greater the musical talent of the doctor.

To know a truth well, one must have fought it out.

Character and fate are two words for the same thing.

The artist stands on the human being as a statue does on a pedestal.

We are more closely connected to the invisible than to the visible.

Nature is an aeolian harp, a musical instrument whose tones are the re-echo of higher strings within us.

There is an energy which springs from sickness and debility: it has a more powerful effect than the real, but, sadly, expires in an even greater infirmity.

A hero is one who knows how to hang on one minute longer.

If the world is a precipitation of human nature, so to speak, then the divine world is a sublimation of the same. Both occur in one act. No precipitation without sublimation. What goes lost there in agility, is won here.

Philosophy is really nostalgia, the desire to be at home.

You are alone with everything you love.

I miss you a little less each day. You’re just a faded memory now – delicate; tucked away.

Unfolding into yourself, what a tender, delicate thing.

Self Love – the most delicate intimacy.

In a dancer, there is a reverence for such forgotten things as the miracle of the small beautiful bones and their delicate strength.

If you destroy delicacy and a sense of shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast.

Never do what a specialist can do better. Discover your own specialty. Do not despair if your specialty appears to be more delicate, a lesser thing. Make up in finesse what you lose in force.

What is commonly called love, namely the desire of satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity of delicate white human flesh.

And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?