A good critic is the sorcerer who makes some hidden spring gush forth unexpectedly under our feet.

We are, all of us, molded and remolded by those who have loved us, and though that love may pass, we remain none the less their work--a work that very likely they do not recognize, and which is never exactly what they intended.

Men resemble great deserted palaces: the owner occupies only a few rooms and has closed-off wings where he never ventures.

If you would tell me the heart of a man, tell me not what he reads, but what he rereads.

The arrogance of poets is only a defense; doubt gnaws the greatest among them; they need our testimony to escape despair.

This God who, as the psalmist said, built His tabernacles in the sun, now establishes Himself in the very core of the flesh and the blood.

The man who partakes in the breaking of the bread dares to build his house on the very core of love. He becomes, as it were, Godlike, but regardless of the strength he derives from it, his free will remains. We are always free to disown this immense grace, to abuse it. The Greatest Love may be betrayed. Fed on the Living Bread, we nevertheless conceal a part of ourselves which longs for swine's food.