Grief is a gift, something you have to earn.

Verliebtheiten werden maßlos überschätzt. Verliebtheiten bestehen zu fünfundvierzig Prozent aus der Furcht davor, nicht akzeptiert zu werden, zu fünfundvierzig Prozent aus der manischen Hoffnung, dass diese Furcht ausgerechnet diesmal beschämt wird, und zu bescheidenen zehn Prozent aus dem zerbrechlichen Gefühl für die Möglichkeit der Liebe.

Maybe it's wrong when we remember breakthroughs to our own being as something that occurs in discrete, extraordinary moments. Maybe falling in love, the piercing knowledge that we ourselves will someday die, and the love of snow are in reality not some sudden events; maybe they were always present. Maybe they never completely vanish, either.

Cantor illustrated the concept of infinity for his students by telling them that there was once a man who had a hotel with an infinite number of rooms, and the hotel was fully occupied. Then one more guest arrived. So the owner moved the guest in room number 1 into room number 2; the guest in room number 2 into number 3; the guest in 3 into room 4, and so on. In that way room number 1 became vacant for the new guest.

What delights me about this story is that everyone involved, the guests and the owner, accept it as perfectly natural to carry out an infinite number of operations so that one guest can have peace and quiet in a room of his own. That is a great tribute to solitude.

To want to understand is an attempt to recapture something we have lost.

There is a pleasant firmness of tone when one is in harmony with oneself. Even when it's a weak ethic one is resonating with.