He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.

Life could be limitless joy, if we would only take it for what it is, in the way it is given to us.

Morning or night, Friday or Sunday, made no difference, everything was the same: the gnawing, excruciating, incessant pain; that awareness of life irrevocably passing but not yet gone; that dreadful, loathsome death, the only reality, relentlessly closing in on him; and that same endless lie. What did days, weeks, or hours matter?

We're asleep until we love.

He sought his former accustomed fear of death and did not find it. "Where is it? What death?" There was no fear because there was no death. In place of death there was light.

And all these people lived not by reason of any care they had for themselves, but by the love for them that was in other people.

A battle is won by him who is firmly resolved to win it.