The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? — Oscar Wilde, De Profundis. (Fontamara, September 12th 1993) Originally published 1905.… Continue reading Oscar Wilde
No one sings as purely as those who inhabit the deepest hell—what we take to be the song of angels is their song. — Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena. (Schocken; Rev Upd edition April 7, 1990)
I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other. ― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet. (Dover Publications May 8, 2002) Originally published 1929.
Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul? ― John Keats, Letters of John Keats. (Oxford University Press, July 15, 1970) Originally published January 1st 1954.
Summer? My memory flutters — had I — was there a summer? — Emily Dickinson, from a letter to J. G. Holland, The Letters of Emily Dickinson. Edited by Mabel Loomis Todd ( (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, September 28, 2015)
Diaries are very futile. I must be all dream or all deed. It is quite impossible for me to express any of the beauty I feel to half the degree I feel it; and yet it is a great pleasure to seize an impression and lock it up in words: you feel as if you… Continue reading Wallace Stevens
…I have a feeling of being at home when I am with Sien, a feeling that she gives me my own hearth, that our lives are interwoven. This is a heartfelt, deep feeling, serious, and not without a dark shadow of her gloomy past and mine, as if some evil threatened us, against which we… Continue reading Vincent van Gogh