The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.

There is no way; we make the road by walking it.

I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.

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

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. (Walk, there is no path, the path is made by walking.)

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Beware of the community in which blasphemy does not exist: underneath, atheism runs rampant.