“There is no task as urgent for us as to learn daily how to die, but our knowledge of death is not increased by the renunciation of life; only the ripe fruit of the here and now that has been seized and bitten will spread its indescribable taste in us.”

“If we only arrange our life in accordance with the principle which tells us that we must always trust in the difficult, then what now appears to us as the most alien will become our most intimate and trusted experience. How could we forget those ancient myths that stand at the beginning of all races, the myths about dragons that at the last moment are transformed into princesses? Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage.”

“If it were possible for us to see further than our knowledge extends and out a little over the outworks of our surmising, perhaps we should then bear our sorrows with greater confidence than our joys. For they are the moments when something new, something unknown, has entered us.”

“but those tasks that have been entrusted to us are difficult; almost everything serious is difficult; and everything is serious.”

“If only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful.”

“We have no reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us. Has it terrors, they are our terrors; has it abysses, those abysses belong to us; are dangers at hand, we must try to love them… How should we be able to forget those ancient myths about dragons that at the least moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.”

“We’re involved with flower, fruit, grapevine.They speak more than the language of the year.Out of the darkness a blaze of colors appears,and one perhaps that has the jealous shineOf the dead, those who strengthen the earth.What do we know of the part they assume?It’s long been their habit to marrow the loamwith their own free marrow through and through. Now the one question: Is it done gladly?The work of sullen slaves, does this fruitthrust up, clenched, toward us, its masters?Sleeping with roots, granting us only out of their surplus this hybrid made of mutestrength and kisses — are they the masters?”