This wretched brain gave way, and I became a wreck at random driven, without one glimpse of reason or heaven.

How many times do we lose an occasion for soul work by leaping ahead to final solutions without pausing to savor the undertones? We are a radically bottom-line society, eager to act and to end tension, and thus we lose opportunities to know ourselves for our motives and our secrets.

I have plenty of machinery around me; what I really need is a more enchanting world in which to live and work.

Romantic love is an illusion. Most of us discover this truth at the end of a love affair or else when the sweet emotions of love lead us into marriage and then turn down their flames.

Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.

I thought that the light-house looked lovely as hope, That star on life's tremulous ocean.

When we relate to our bodies as having soul, we attend to their beauty, their poetry and their expressiveness. Our very habit of treating the body as a machine, whose muscles are like pulleys and its organs engines, forces its poetry underground, so that we experience the body as an instrument and see its poetics only in illness.