Human Love Is Often But The Encounter

We Are, All Of Us, Molded And Remolded By Those Who Have Loved Us, And Though That Love May Pass, We Remain None The Less Their Work--a Work That Very Likely They Do Not Recognize, And Which Is Never Exactly What They Intended.

Men Resemble Great Deserted Palaces: The Owner Occupies Only A Few Rooms And Has Closed-off Wings Where He Never Ventures.

To Love Someone Is To See A Miracle Invisible To Others.

Let Us Be Wary Of Ready-made Ideas About Cowardice And Courage: The Same Burden Weighs Infinitely More Heavily On Some Shoulders Than On Others.

If You Would Tell Me The Heart Of A Man, Tell Me Not What He Reads, But What He Rereads.