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

Tell me what you read and I'll tell you who you are is true enough, but I'd know you better if you told me what you reread.

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.

What I fear is not being forgotten after my death, but, rather, not being enough forgotten. As we were saying, it is not our books that survive, but our poor lives that linger in the histories.

Human love is often but the encounter of two weaknesses.

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

If the flame inside you goes out, the souls that are next to you will die of cold.