Life Is The Flower For Which Love

In This Way, His Unhappy Soul Struggled With Its Anguish. Eighteen Hundred Years Before This Unfortunate Man, The Mysterious Being, In Whom All The Sanctities And All The Sufferings Of Humanity Come Together, He Too, While The Olive Trees Trembled In The Fierce Breath Of The Infinite, Had Brushed Away The Fearful Cup That Appeared Before Him, Streaming With Shadow And Running Over With Darkness, In The Star-filled Depths. (pg. 236)

To Live A Life Which Is A Perpetual Falsehood Is To Suffer Unknown Tortures.

One Of The Hardest Tasks Is To Extract Continually From One's Soul An Almost Inexhaustible Ill Will.

His Universal Compassion Was Due Less To Natural Instinct, Than To A Profound Conviction, A Sum Of Thoughts That In The Course Of Living Had Filtered Through To His Heart: For In The Nature Of Man, As In Rock, There May Be Channels Hollowed By The Dropping Of Water, And These Can Never Be Destroyed.

It Was She. Whoever Has Loved Knows All The Radiant Meaning Contained In The Three Letters Of This Word ‘she.