The unhistorical are usually, without knowing it, enslaved to a fairly recent past.

The time when there is nothing at all in your soul except a cry for help may be just that time when God can't give it: you are like the drowning man who can't be helped because he clutches and grabs. Perhaps your own reiterated cries deafen you to the voice you hoped to hear.

The human heart is not unchanging (nay, changes almost out of recognition in the twinkling of an eye).

They stormed and jeered at one another in long meaningless words of about twenty syllables each.

Authority exercised with humility, and obedience accepted with delight are the very lines along which our spirits live.

Poetry too is a little incarnation, giving body to what had been before invisible and inaudible.

You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.