I have a faithful joy and a joy that is lost. One is like a rose, the other, a thorn. The one that was stolen I have not lost.

In the secret of night, my prayer climbs like the liana, My prayer is, and I am not. It grows, and I perish. I have only my hard breath, my reason and my madness. I cling to the vine of my prayer. I tend it at the root of the stalk of night.

My grief and my smile begin in your face, my son.

Now my belly is as noble as my heart.

There is the joy of being healthy and fair, but there is overall the beauty, the immense joy of being useful.

Speech is our second possession, after the soul-and perhaps we have no other possession in this world.

You shall create beauty not to excite the senses but to give sustenance to the soul.