There is no such thing as an artist: there is only the world lit or unlit as the light allows. When the candle is burning, who looks at the wick? When the candle is out, who needs it?

What a hideout: Holiness lies spread and borne over the surface of time and stuff like color.

Almost all of my many passionate interests, and my many changes of mind, came through books. Books prompted the many vows I made to myself.

The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring.

The soul may ask God for anything, and never fail.

The interior life is often stupid.

How you spend your days is how you spend your life.