The first pages of memory are like the old family Bible. The first leaves are wholly faded and somewhat soiled with handling. But, when we turn further, and come to the chapters where Adam and Eve were banished from Paradise, then, all begins to grow clear and legible.

Would not the child's heart break in despair when the first cold storm of the world sweeps over it, if the warm sunlight of love from the eyes of mother and father did not shine upon him like the soft reflection of divine light and love?

Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, and the chrysalis a butterfly, and the butterfly dust?

There is no book in the world that is so thrilling, stirring and inspiring as the Upanishads.

I was so astonished that another had penetrated so deeply into the secrets of my soul, and that he knew what I did not know myself, that when I recovered from it he had already been long upon the street.

It is the heart that makes the critic, not the nose.

It smote me to the heart that I had found no one in all the world who loved me more than all others.