I do believe it is possible to create, even without ever writing a word or painting a picture, by simply molding one’s inner life. And that too is a deed.

Despite everything, life is full of beauty and meaning.

All disasters stem from us. Why is there a war? Perhaps because now and then I might be inclined to snap at my neighbour. Because I and my neighbour and everyone else do not have enough love. Yet we could fight war and all its excrescences by releasing each day, the love which is shackled inside us, and giving it a chance to live.

How rash to assert that man shapes his own destiny. All he can do is determine his inner responses.

I would be so exhausted by my determination that I had no strength left to do the actual work.

Here, beside this great black surface that is my desk, I feel as though I am on a desert island.

I'm afraid I did not pray hard enough last night.