The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.

There is no road, the road is made by walking.

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

The truly erotic sensibility, in evoking the image of woman, never omits to clothe it. The robing and disrobing: that is the true traffic of love.

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

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvellous error! - That it was God I had here inside my heart.

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