There Is Only One Journey.

Read As Little As Possible Of Literary Criticism - Such Things Are Either Partisan Opinions, Which Have Become Petrified And Meaningless, Hardened And Empty Of Life, Or Else They Are Just Clever Word-games, In Which One View Wins Today, And Tomorrow The Opposite View. Works Of Art Are Of An Infinite Solitude, And No Means Of Approach Is So Useless As Criticism.

Draw Near To Nature. Then Try Like Some First Human Being To Say What You See And Experience And Love And Lose.

All Professions Are... Filled With Demands.

Let Your Beauty Manifest Itself Without Talking And Calculation.​ You Are Silent. It Says For You: I Am. And Comes In Meaning Thousandfold​, Comes At Long Last Over Everyone.

At No Other Time (than Autumn) Does The Earth Let Itself Be Inhaled In One Smell, The Ripe Earth; In A Smell That Is In No Way Inferior To The Smell Of The Sea, Bitter Where It Borders On Taste, And More Honeysweet Where You Feel It Touching The First Sounds. Containing Depth Within Itself, Darkness, Something Of The Grave Almost.