The knight is a man of blood and iron, a man familiar with the sight of smashed faces and the ragged stumps of lopped-off limbs; he is also a demure, almost a maidenlike, guest in hall, a gentle, modest, unobtrusive man. He is not a compromise or happy mean between ferocity and meekness; he is fierce to the nth and meek to the nth.

The Eternal Being, who knows everything and who created the whole universe, became not only a man but (before that) a baby, and before that a fetus in a woman's body.

Who will take medicine unless he knows he is in the grip of disease?

It's not a question of God 'sending' us to Hell. In each of us there is something growing up which will of itself be Hell unless it is nipped in the bud.

It is funny how mortals always picture us as putting things into their minds: in reality our best work is done by keeping things out.

Don't think of God in terms of forms, because forms are limited and God is unlimited.

Sainthood lies in the habit of referring the smallest actions to God.