The self says, I am; The heart says, I am less; The spirit says, you are Nothing.

And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

How terrible the need for God.

In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.

What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?

I learn by going where I have to go.

What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?