The heaven that rolls around cries aloud to you while it displays its eternal beauties, and yet your eyes are fixed upon the earth alone.

Art, as far as it is able, follows nature, as a pupil imitates his master; thus your art must be, as it were, God's grandchild.

There is no greater pain than to remember, in our present grief, past happiness.

…all things created have an order in themselves, and this begets the form that lets the universe resemble God.

And as he, who with laboring breath has escaped from the deep to the shore, turns to the perilous waters and gazes.

The devil is not as black as he is painted.

A rapid bolt will rend the clouds apart, and every single White be seared by wounds. I tell you this. I want it all to hurt.