Your book bill ought to be your biggest extravagance.

A blessed spirit is a mould ever more and more patient of the bright metal poured into it, a body ever more completely uncovered to the meridian blaze of the spiritual sun.

We live, in fact, in a world starved for solitude, silence, and private: and therefore starved for meditation and true friendship.

Love, while always forgiving of imperfections and mistakes, can never cease to will their removal.

Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours.

I was wondering — I mean — could there be some mistake? Because nobody called me and Scrubb, you know. It was we who asked to come here. You would not have called me unless I had been calling you.

Here at last is the thing I was made for.