In order to succeed, we must first believe that we can.

You have your brush, you have your colors, you paint the paradise, then in you go.

Yes, there is weeping, even in heaven, but it is for those who are still crawling on the earth.

I say one thing, you write another, and those who read you understand still something else! I say: cross, death, kingdom of heaven, God...and what do you understand? Each of you attaches his own suffering, interests and desires to each of these sacred words, and my words disappear, my soul is lost. I can't stand it any longer!

The canary is like a man's soul. It sees bars around it, but instead of despairing, it sings.

When shall I at last retire into solitude alone, without companions, without joy and without sorrow, with only the sacred certainty that all is a dream? When, in my rags—without desires—shall I retire contented into the mountains? When, seeing that my body is merely sickness and crime, age and death, shall I—free, fearless, and blissful—retire to the forest? When? When, oh when?

I said to the almond tree, 'Sister, speak to me of God.' And the almond tree blossomed.