“That is what poetry can do. It speaks to us of what does not exist, which is not only better than what exists, but even more like the truth.”

I share no man’s opinions; I have my own.

If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin.

Behind me there are already so many memories Lots of memories, but no point in remembering them, and ahead of me a long, long road with nothing to aim for I just don’t want to go along it.

A person who gets angry at his own illness is sure to overcome it.

The past was a dream wasn’t it? And who ever remembers dreams?

What a magnificent body, how I should like to see it on the dissecting table.

Nature creates while destroying, and doesn’t care whether it creates or destroys as long as life isn’t extinguished, as long as death doesn’t lose its rights.

We sit in the mud and reach for the stars.

I look up to heaven only when I want to sneeze.

One may speak about anything on earth with fire, with enthusiasm, with ecstasy, but one only speaks about oneself with avidity.

To desire and expect nothing for oneself and to have profound sympathy for others is genuine holiness.

You may live a long while with some people and be on friendly terms with them and never speak openly with them from your soul.

Death is like a fisherman, who, having caught a fish in his net, leaves it in the water for a time; the fish continues to swim about, but all the while the net is round it, and the fisherman will snatch it out in his own good time.

Each individual is more or less dimly aware of his significance, is aware that he’s something innately superior, something eternal–and lives, is obligated to live, in the moment and for the moment.

Whatever man prays for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces itself.

There are some moments in life, some feelings; one can only point to them and pass by.