Why is it that reality, when set down untransposed in a book, sounds false?

If we go down into ourselves, we find that we possess exactly what we desire.

Prayer consists simply in giving to God all the careful attention of which the soul is capable.

The poet produces the beautiful by fixing his attention on something real.

The only way into truth is through one's own annihilation; through dwelling a long time in a state of extreme and total humiliation.

I only read what I am hungry for at the moment when I have an appetite for it, and then I do not read, I eat.

If we concentrate our attention on trying to solve a problem of geometry, and if at the end of an hour we are no nearer to doing so than at the beginning, we have nevertheless been making progress each minute of that hour in another more mysterious dimension. Without knowing or feeling it, this apparent barren affort has brought more light into the soul.