Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being in love which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.

The arrogance is not greatness but swelling; and the swelling seems big but it's not healthy.

Grant what Thou commandest, and command what Thou wilt.

For where I found Truth, there found I my God, the Truth itself; which since I learnt, I have not forgotten.

Ex Malo Bounum (good out of evil).

What do I love when I love my God?

What can be hoped for which is not believed?