Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.
Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.
They, who passed away long ago, still exist in us, as predisposition, as burden upon our fate, as murmuring blood, and as gesture that rises up from the depths of time.
Success, which is something so simple in the end, is made up of thousands of things, we never fully know what.
That’s love: Two lonely persons keep each other safe and touch each other and talk to each other.
Fame is finally only the sum total of all the misunderstanding that can gather around a new name.
It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible.
I am the rest between two notes which are somehow always in discord.
If my devils are to leave me, I'm afraid my angels will take flight as well.
But there is much beauty here, because there is much beauty everywhere.
...a carefree letting go of oneself, not a caution, but a wise blindness.
I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!
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.
Every angel is terrifying.
But because truly being here is so much; because everything here apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
If you will cling to Nature, to the simple in Nature, to the little things that hardly anyone sees, and that can so unexpectedly become big and beyond measuring; if you have this love of inconsiderable things and seek quite simply, as one who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier, more coherent and somehow more conciliatory for you, not in your intellect, perhaps, which lags marveling behind, but in your inmost consciousness, waking and cognizance.
The deepest experience of the creator is feminine, for it is experience of receiving and bearing.
Death is the side of life which is turned away from us.
I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language.
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.
We are unutterably alone essentially, especially in the things most intimate and most important.
Were it possible for us to see further than our knowledge reaches, and yet a little way beyond the outworks of our divinings, perhaps we would endure our sadnesses with greater confidence than our joys. For they are the moments when something new has entered into us, something unknown; our feelings grow mute in shy perplexity, everything in us withdraws, a stillness comes, and the new, which no one knows, stands in the midst of it and is silent.
In the difficult are the friendly forces, the hands that work on us.
Every intensification is good, if it is in your entire blood, if it isn't intoxication or muddiness, but joy which you can see into, clear to the bottom.
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