A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.
Our words must seem to be inevitable.
There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.
Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.
The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.