The beauty of nature, like every other kind of beauty, is quite jealous; it demands that one serve it alone.

The slow arrow of beauty. The most noble kind of beauty is that which does not carry us away suddenly, whose attacks are not violent or intoxicating (this kind easily awakens disgust), but rather the kind of beauty which infiltrates slowly, which we carry along with us almost unnoticed, and meet up with again in dreams; finally, after it has for a long time lain modestly in our heart, it takes complete possession of us, filling our eyes with tears, our hearts with longing. What do we long for when we see beauty? To be beautiful. We think much happiness must be connected with it. But that is an error.

The desire to create continually is vulgar and betrays jealousy, envy, ambition. If one is something one really does not need to make anything -and one nonetheless does very much. There exists above the ''productive'' man a yet higher species.

One is fruitful only at the cost of being rich in contradictions.

Little prigs and three-quarter madmen may have the conceit that the laws of nature are constantly broken for their sakes

the voice of beauty speaks softly; it creeps only into the most fully awakened souls