No creature is fully itself till it is, like the dandelion, opened in the bloom of pure relationship to the sun, the entire living cosmos.

At the back of my life's horizon, where the dreamings of past lives crowd.

She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes.

The whole point about the true unconscious is that it is all the time moving forward, beyond the range of its own fixed laws or habits. It is no good trying to superimpose an ideal nature upon the unconscious.

If it be not true to me, What care I how true it be.. Though it be not true to thee, It's gay and gospel truth to me.

You don't learn algebra with your blessed soul. Can't you look at it with your clear simple wits?

The human soul needs actual beauty even more than bread.