Son, brother, father, lover, friend. There is room in the heart for all the affections, as there is room in heaven for all the stars.

To meditate is to labour; to think is to act. Folded arms work, closed hands perform, a gaze fixed on heaven is a toil.

There are no weeds, and no worthless men. There are only bad farmers.

Foppery is the egotism of clothes.

Monastic incarceration is castration.

Yes, instruction! Light! Light! Everything comes from light, and to everything it returns.

Nothing can be more depressing than to expose, naked to the light of thought, the hideous growth of argot. Indeed it is like a sort of repellent animal intended to dwell in darkness which has been dragged out of its cloaca. One seems to see a horned and living creature viciously struggling to be restored to the place where it belongs. One word is like a claw, another like a sightless and bleeding eye; and there are phrases which clutch like the pincers of a crab. And all of it is alive with the hideous vitality of things that have organized themselves amid disorganization.