There is no love apart from the deeds of love; no potentiality of love other than that which is manifested in loving.

Perhaps its inevitable, perhaps one has to choose between being nothing at all and impersonating what one is.

Commitment is an act, not a word.

One always dies too soon or too late. And yet, life is there, finished: the line is drawn, and it must all be added up. You are nothing other than your life.

What I see is teeming cohesion, contained dispersal... For him, to sculpt is to take the fat off space.

The viable jewels of life remain untouched when man forgets his vocation of searching for the truth of his existence.

This then is the age of reason.