A rose is but a rose, it blooms because it blooms; it thinks not of itself, nor asks if it is seen.

What is outside yourself does not convey much worth; Clothes do not make the man, the saddle not the horse.

Nothing can throw thee into the infernal abyss so much as this detested word - heed well! - this mine and thine.

If Christ were born in Bethlehem a thousand times and not in thee thyself; then art thou lost eternally.

God is a pure no-thing, concealed in now and here; the less you reach for him, the more he will appear.

The rose does not have a why; it blossums without reason, forgetful of self and oblivious to our vision.

A rose is but a rose, it blooms because it blooms; it thinks not of itself, nor asks if it is seen.