Pain (n.) gives of its healing power where we least expect it.
Pain (n.) is truly pain only when it serves the flame of the spirit.
Pain (n.) heard through the Greek algos and legein may be what gathers most intimately.
Pain (n.) is the joining of the rift; pain is the dif-ference itself.
Pain (n.) gives the spirit its gravity — the weight that keeps mortals, with all their wavering, at rest in their being.
Pain (n.) as infinite torment does not mean unending agony: it is consummate pain, pain come to the fullness of its nature.
Pain (n.) rends — it is the rift — but it tears apart so as to gather, like the pen-drawing of a sketch that joins what it holds apart.
Pain (n.) that rises from the rift in what is does not yet reach man in his essence, despite all the unspeakable suffering — publicity sees to that.
Pain (n.) is not to be imagined anthropologically, as a sensation that afflicts us, nor intimacy as a nest for sentimentality.
Pain (n.) is the play that attunes joy and sadness to each other, letting the remote be near and the near be remote — which is why highest joy and deepest sadness both hurt.
Pain (n.) is converse by nature: its sweep carries us truly onward only as it sweeps us back — flaming, it carries farthest when it holds to itself most intimately.
Pain (n.) is neither repugnant nor profitable: all the distress of disintegrating is the single semblance in which truth conceals itself — pain is the benignity in the nature of all essential being.
Pain (n.) is the animator: everything that is alive is painful — and its nature stays impenetrable to any mind that understands pain in terms of sensitivity.