It's all so beautiful . . . the spring . . . and books and music and fires. . . . Why aren't they enough?

I write what I would like to read.

Changing husbands is only changing troubles.

The demon of acedia -- also called the noonday demon -- is the one that causes the most serious trouble of all. . . . He makes it seem that the sun barely moves, if at all, and . . . he instills in the heart of the monk a hatred for the place, a hatred for his very life itself.

I sense that striving for wholeness is, increasingly, a countercultural goal, as fragmented people make for better consumers.

I was taught that I had to 'master' subjects. But who can 'master' beauty, or peace, or joy?

Traversing a slow page, to come upon a lode of the pure shining metal is to exult inwardly for greedy hours.