You don't feed nightingales on fairy-tales

The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.

What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.

Nothing in this world is harder than speaking the truth, nothing easier than flattery.

The darker the night, the brighter the stars, The deeper the grief, the closer is God!

The soul is healed by being with children.

It takes something more than intelligence to act intelligently.

But how could you live and have no story to tell?

If you want to be respected by others, the great thing is to respect yourself. Only by that, only by self-respect will you compel others to respect you.

Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.

To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise.

The kind of society we live in can contribute to loneliness. Mobility and constant change tend to make some individuals feel rootless and disconnected.

Believe in Eternity, believe in childhood, believe that the beauty of innocence lives on and on and on. I know it does.

Sufi poetry is, in a sense, self-help poetry about how to live a decent life, how to deal with your mortality.

I always entertain the notion that I'm wrong, or that I'll have to revise my opinion. Most of the time that feels good; sometimes it really hurts and is embarrassing.

I cant write about something I dont admire. It goes back to the old concept of the celebration: you celebrate the hero, an idea.

The only thing money is good for is to buy your freedom.

What still amuses me a bit is that in F1 people see the race basically on TV screens. But I am sure new tracks will be built.

Good and evil - I don't believe that there is hanging out there, anywhere, something called good and something called evil.

I always think that I’m still this 13-year old boy that doesn’t really know how to be an adult, pretending to live my life, taking notes for when I’ll really have to do it.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.