And yet they are in us, those who have long since passed away, as natural disposition, as burden on our destiny, as blood that throbs, and as gesture that rises up out of the depths of time.
She has something of her very own, something suffered, accomplished, perfected.
It is good to say it out loud: 'Nothing happened.' Once more: 'Nothing happened.' Does that help at all?
A person isn't who they are during the last conversation you had with them - they're who they've been throughout your whole relationship.
In the night, I wish to speak with the angel to find out if she recognizes my eyes, if she will ask me: do you see Eden? And I'll reply: Eden burns.
Be attentive to what is arising within you, and place that above everything else...What is happening in your innermost self is worthy of your entire love; somehow you must find a way to work at it.
A world will come over you, the happiness, the wealth, the inconceivable greatness of a world.
No experience has been too unimportant, and the smallest event unfolds like a fate, and fate itself is like a wonderful, wide fabric in which every thread is guided by an infinitely tender hand and laid alongside another thread and is held and supported by a hundred others.
Believe in a love that is preserved for you like a heritage, and trust that in this love there is a strength and a blessing which you are not bound to leave behind you though you may travel far!
Just the wish that you may find in yourself enough patience to endure and enough simplicity to have faith; that you may gain more and more confidence in what is difficult and in your solitude among other people. And as for the rest, let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always.
And those, who come together in the night and are twined in quivering pleasure, are performing a serious work and are heaping up sweetness, depth and force for the song of some coming poet, who will arise to express inexpressible ecstasies.
We lead our lives so poorly because we arrive in the present always unprepared, incapable, and too distracted for everything.
But only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live the relation to another as something alive and will himself draw exhaustively from his own existence.
It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning.
It is good to be alone, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult should be one more reason to do it.
Only love can touch and hold [works of art] and be fair to them.
So whoever loves must try to act as if he had a great work: he must be much alone and go into himself and collect himself and hold fast to himself; he must work; he must become something!
We must embrace struggle. Every living thing conforms to it. Everything in nature grows and struggles in its own way, establishing its own identity, insisting on it at all cost, against all resistance.
Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.
My old furniture is rotting in a barn where I was permitted to store it, and as for myself, dear God, I don't have a roof over my head and it is raining into my eyes.
That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter.
Oh Malte, we just go on living, and it seems to me that everyone is distracted and busy and no one pays proper attention as we go along. As if a meteor were to fall and no one sees it and no one has made a wish. Never forget to wish for something, Malte.
Don't you see that everything that happens is always a beginning again.
But alas, with poems one accomplishes so little when one writes them early. One should hold off and gather sense and sweetness a whole life long, a long life if possible, and then, right at the end, one could perhaps write ten lines that are good. For poems are not, as people think, feelings (those one has early enough—they are experiences.
Is it possible that despite our inventions and progress, despite our culture, religion and knowledge of the world, we have remained on the surface of life?
But there is much beauty here, because there is much beauty everywhere.
For there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.
Love is something difficult and it is more difficult than other things because in other conflicts nature herself enjoins men to collect themselves, to take themselves firmly in the hand with all their strength, while in the heightening of love the impulse is to give oneself wholly away.
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...
Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.
Comfort me from wherever you are–alone, we are quickly worn out; if I place my head on the road, let it seem softened by you. Could it be that even from afar we offer each other a gentle breath?
Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confidence in the storms of spring without fear that after them may come no summer.
I am circling around God, around the ancient tower, and I have been circling for a thousand years, and I still don't know if I am a falcon, or a storm, or a great song.
What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours—that is what you must be able to attain.
Take your well-disciplined strengths, stretch them between the two great opposing poles, because inside human beings is where God learns.
Even between the closest human beings, infinite distances continue.
Yet, no matter how deeply I go down into myself, my God is dark, and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence.
Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.
Summer might come after. It does come. But it comes only to the patient ones, who are there as if eternity lay in front of them.
I always feel: when one person is indebted to another for something very special, that indebtedness should remain a secret between just the two of them.