The Longing For Paradise Is Paradise Itself.

Sayings Remain Meaningless Until They Are Embodied In Habits.

Let Your Home Be You Mast And Not Your Anchor.

Hell Is Not In Torture; Hell Is In An Empty Heart.

But Memory Is An Autumn Leaf That Murmurs A While In The Wind And Then Is Heard No More.

Like Sheaves Of Corn It Gathers You Unto Itself. It Threshes You To Make You Naked. It Sifts You To Free You From Your Husks. It Grinds You To Whiteness. It Kneads You Until You Are Pliant. And Then It Assigns You To Its Sacred Fire, That You May Become Sacred Bread For God's Sacred Feast. All These Things Shall Love Do Unto You That You May Know The Secrets Of Your Heart, And In That Knowledge Become A Fragment Of Life's Heart.