I Was With Book, As A Woman

Love Is Never Wasted, For Its Value Does Not Rest Upon Reciprocity.

The Human Mind Is Generally Far More Eager To Praise And Dispraise Than To Describe And Define. It Wants To Make Every Distinction A Distinction Of Value; Hence Those Fatal Critics Who Can Never Point Out The Differing Quality Of Two Poets Without Putting Them In An Order Of Preference As If They Were Candidates For A Prize.

Love, Having Become A God, Becomes A Demon.

Inner Silence Is For Our Race A Difficult Achievement. There Is A Chattering Part Of The Mind Which Continues, Until It Is Corrected, To Chatter On Even In The Holiest Places.

The Question Is Not What We Intended Ourselves To Be, But What He Intended Us To Be When He Made Us.