But all the time-no matter what she was doing-there was music.

We wander, question. But the answer waits in each separate heart - the answer of our own identity and the way by which we can master loneliness and feel that at last we belong.

The thinking mind is best controlled by the imagination.

Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.

The music left only this bad hurt in her, and a blankness. She could not remember any of the symphony, not even the last few notes. She tried to remember, but no sound at all came to her. Now that it was over there was only her heart like a rabbit and this terrible hurt.

Once you have lived with another, it is a great torture to have to live alone.

Imagination takes humility, love and great courage.