The only living language is the language in which we think and have our being.

The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.

Life is the path you beat while you walk it It's the walking that beats the path It is not the path that makes the walk

The afternoon is bright, with spring in the air, a mild March afternoon, with the breath of April stirring, I am alone in the quiet patio looking for some old untried illusion - some shadow on the whiteness of the wall some memory asleep on the stone rim of the fountain, perhaps in the air the light swish of some trailing gown.

What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

I love Jesus, who said to us: Heaven and earth will pass away. When heaven and earth have passed away, my word will remain. What was your word, Jesus? Love? Forgiveness? Affection? All your words were one word: Wakeup.

Under all that we think, lives all we believe, like the ultimate veil of our spirits