The loss of love is the loss of all rights, even though one had them all.

If, after all, men cannot always make history have a meaning, they can always act so that their own lives have one.

Can one be a saint if God does not exist? That is the only concrete problem I know of today.

I hadn't understood how days could be both long and short at the same time: long to live through, maybe, but so drawn out that they ended up flowing into one another. They lost their names. Only 'yesterday' and 'tomorrow' still had any meaning for me.

The love of God is a hard love. It demands total self-surrender, disdain of our human personality. And yet it alone can reconcile us to suffering and the deaths of children, it alone can justify them, since we cannot understand them, and we can only make God's will ours.

We come into the world laden with the weight of an infinite necessity.

Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.