Nature does at least what she can to translate into visible form the wealth of the creative formula. By the vastness of the abysses into which she penetrates, in the effort--the unsuccessful effort--to house and contain the eternal thought, we may measure the greatness of the divine mind.

The more a man loves, the more he suffers. The sum of possible grief for each soul is in proportion to its degree of perfection.

Thought is a kind of opium; it can intoxicate us, while still broad awake; it can make transparent the mountains and everything that exists.

We are never more discontented with others than when we are discontented with ourselves.

At the bottom of the modern man there is always a great thirst for self-forgetfulness, self-distraction . . . and therefore he turns away from all those problems and abysses which might recall to him his own nothingness.

There is no repose for the mind except in the absolute; for feeling, except in the infinite; for the soul, except in the divine.

As it is impossible to be outside God, the best is consciously to dwell in Him.