Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree. |
Of what worth are convictions that bring not suffering? |
On a day of burial there is no perspective -- for space itself is annihilated. Your dead friend is still a fragmentary being. The day you bury him is a day of chores and crowds, of hands false or true to be shaken, of the immediate cares of mourning. The dead friend will not really die until tomorrow, when silence is round you again. Then he will show himself complete, as he was -- to tear himself away, as he was, from the substantial you. Only then will you cry out because of him who is leaving and whom you cannot detain. |
Once men are caught up in an event, they cease to be afraid. Only the unknown frightens men. |
One can be a brother only in something. Where there is no tie that binds men, men are not united but merely lined up. |
One man may hit the mark, another blunder; but heed not these distinctions. Only from the alliance of the one, working with and through the other, are great things born. |
Only he can understand what a farm is, what a country is, who shall have sacrificed part of himself to his farm or country, fought to save it, struggled to make it beautiful. Only then will the love of farm or country fill his heart. |
Only the unknown frightens men. But once a man has faced the unknown, that terror becomes the known. |
Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. |
Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add but when there is no longer anything to take away, when a body has been stripped down to its nakedness |
Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add but when there is no longer anything to take away, when a body has been stripped down to its nakedness |
Perhaps love is the process of my leading you gently back to yourself |
Pure logic is the ruin of the spirit. |
Sorrow is one of the vibrations that prove the fact of living |
Tell me who admires and loves you, and I will tell you who you are. |