The More You Say, The Less People

The More Perfect We Are, The More Gentle And Quiet We Become Toward The Defects Of Other People.

Crosses Are Of No Use To Us But Inasmuch As We Yield Ourselves Up To Them And Forget Ourselves.

True Love Goes Ever Straight Forward, Not In Its Own Strength, But Esteeming Itself As Nothing. Then Indeed We Are Truly Happy. The Cross Is No Longer A Cross When There Is No Self To Suffer Under It.

Pity Enlarges The Heart.

The Past But Lives In Written Words: A Thousand Ages Were Blank If Books Had Not Evoked Their Ghosts, And Kept The Pale Unbodied Shades To Warn Us From Fleshless Lips.