Creative people have to be fed from the divine source.

You wake from dreams of doom and--for a moment--you know: beyond all the noise and the gestures, the only real thing, love's calm unwavering flame in the half-light of an early dawn.

Your cravings as a human animal do not become a prayer just because it is God whom you ask to attend to them.

Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for.

We all have within us a center of stillness surrounded by silence.

At every moment you choose yourself. But do you choose *your* self? Body and soul contain a thousand possibilities out of which you can build many I's. But in one of them is there a congruence of the elector and the elected. Only one--which you will never find until you have excluded all those superficial and fleeting possibilities of being and doing with which you toy, out of curiosity or wonder or greed, and which hinder you from casting anchor in the experience of the mystery of life, and the consciousness of the talent entrusted to you which is your *I*.

Life yields only to the conqueror.