Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow.

Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.

Rough work, iconoclasm, but the only way to get at truth.

Youth fades, love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; A mother's secret hope outlives them all.

Love is the master key that opens the gates of happiness.

A man may fulfill the object of his existence by asking a question he cannot answer, and attempting a task he cannot achieve.

It is the province of knowledge to speak, and it is the privilege of wisdom to listen.

Man has his will, but woman has her way.

Many people die with their music still in them. Why is this so? Too often it is because they are always getting ready to live. Before they know it, time runs out.

Beware how you take away hope from any human being.

Most people are willing to take the Sermon on the Mount as a flag to sail under, but few will use it as a rudder by which to steer.

...and he glanced at the backs of the books, with an awakened curiosity that went below the binding. No one who can read, ever looks at a book, even unopened on a shelf, like one who cannot.

As we see the beauty of God and feel His weightiness in our hearts, our hearts begin to desire Him more than we desire sin. Before the Bible says, "Stop sinning, " it says, "Behold your God.

As I have discovered again and again, things are never as bad (or as good) as they seem at the time.

To be truly alive is to feel one's ultimate existence within one's daily existence.

This is the beauty of social media: it helps you find people and then you can contact them fast and inexpensively.

For me concrete poetry was a particular way of using language which came out of a particular feeling, and I don't have control over whether this feeling is in me or not.

I really try hard not to work, not to engage, because I know what that means. What hard work it is; it takes me away from my family.

I'm just saying it's easier to kill a cat than dispose of a car.

So soon as this want or power [of love] is dead, man becomes the living sepulchre of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.

The only consistent narrative we possess is one that we share with every other life-form: we are born, we live, and then we die.