I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world.
Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.
If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing . . . then you are a writer.
Love and death are the great gifts that are given to us; mostly they are passed on unopened.
The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate.
Shattered people are best represented by bits and pieces.
I want to love the things as no one has thought to love them.
If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is no poverty.
Everything is gestation and bringing forth. To let each impression and each germ of feeling come to completion wholly in itself, in the dark, in the inexpressible, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one's own intelligence, and await with deep humility and patience the birth-hour of a new clarity: that alone is living the artist's life.
Space for the Spirit to breathe.
One moment your life is a stone in you, and the next moment a star!
It seems to me that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension, which we feel as paralysis because we no longer hear our astonished emotions living.
we are continually overflowing toward those who preceded us, toward our origin, and toward those who seemingly come after us. ... It is our task to imprint this temporary, perishable earth into ourselves so deeply, so painfully and passionately, that its essence can rise again “invisibly,” inside us. We are the bees of the invisible. We wildly collect the honey of the visible, to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.
No, no, one can imagine nothing in the world, not the least thing. Everything is composed of so many isolated details that are not to be foreseen. In one's imagining one passes over them and hasty as one is doesn't notice that they are missing. But realities are slow and indescribably detailed.
All things want to float.
We discover that we do not know our role; we look for a mirror; we want to remove our make-up and take off what is false and real. But somewhere a piece of disguise that we forgot still sticks to us. A trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows; we do not notice that the corners of our mouth are bent. And so we walk around, a mockery and a mere half: neither having achieved being nor actors.
There is time only to work slowly There is no time not to love
My blood is alive with many voices telling me I am made of longing.
And still it is not enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many, and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again. For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not until they have turned to blood within us, to glance, to gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves - not until then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
Perhaps then, some day far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
The most visible joy can only reveal itself to us when we've transformed it, within.
Beauty is only the start of bearable terror.
Live the questions now.
Our task is to listen to the news that is always arriving out of silence.
Deeply I go down into myself. My god is Dark and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: