The source of one's joy is also often the source of one's sorrow.

It is the loving, not the loved, woman who feels loveable.

Knowledge of what you love somehow comes to you; you don’t have to read nor analyze nor study. If you love a thing enough, knowledge of it seeps into you, with particulars more real than any chart can furnish.

In their sympathies, children feel nearer animals than adults. They frolic with animals, caress them, share with them feelings neither has words for. Have they ever stroked any adult with the love they bestow on a cat? Hugged any grownup with the ecstasy they feel when clasping a puppy?

The sick soon come to understand that they live in a different world from that of the well and that the two cannot communicate.

Faithfulness to the past can be a kind of death above ground. Writing of the past is a resurrection; the past then lives in your words and you are free.

A religious awakening which does not awaken the sleeper to love has roused him in vain.