If we have not silence, God is not heard in our music. If we have no rest God, does not bless our work.

Whose silence are you?

The primordial blessing, 'increase and multiply', has suddenly become a hemorrhage of terror. We are numbered in billions, and massed together, marshalled, numbered, marched here and there, taxed, drilled, armed, worked to the point of insensibility, dazed by information, drugged by entertainment, surfeited with everything, nauseated with the human race and with ourselves, nauseated with life.

The only unhappiness is not to love God.

The man of faith who has never experienced doubt is not a man of faith.

No matter how ruined man and his world may seem to be, and no matter how terrible man's despair may become, as long as he continues to be a man his very humanity continues to tell him that life has a meaning.

But there is greater comfort in the substance of silence than in the answer to a question.