Every man becomes the image of the God he adores. He whose worship is directed to a dead thing becomes dead. He who loves corruption rots. He who loves a shadow becomes, himself, a shadow. He who loves things that must perish lives in dread of their perishing.
I just remember their kindness and goodness to me, and their peacefulness and their utter simplicity. They inspired real reverence, and I think, in a way, they were certainly saints. And they were saints in that most effective and telling way: sanctified by leading ordinary lives in a completely supernatural manner, sanctified by obscurity, by usual skills, by common tasks, by routine, but skills, tasks, routine which received a supernatural form from grace within.
It is in the ordinary duties and labors of life that we can and should develop our spiritual union with God.
The married man and the mother of a family, if they are faithful to their obligations, will fulfill a mission that is as great as it is consoling: that of bringing into the world and forming young souls capable of happiness and love, souls capable of sanctification and transformation.
There are days when I am convinced that Heaven starts already, now, in this ordinary life just as it is, in all its incompleteness, yet, this is where Heaven starts… see within yourself, if you can find it. I walked through the field in front of the house, lots of swallows flying, everywhere! Some very near me… it was magical. We are already one, yet we know it not.
There is in us an instinct for newness, for renewal, for a liberation of creative power. We seek to awaken in ourselves a force that really changes our lives from within. And yet the same instinct tells us that this change is a recovery of that which is deepest, most original, most personal in ourselves. To be born again is not to become somebody else, but to become ourselves.
When the light of God's truth begins to find its way through the mists of illusion and self-deception with which we have unconsciously surrounded ourselves, and when the image of God within us begins to return to itself, the false self which we inherited from Adam begins to experience the strange panic that Adam felt when, after his sin, he hid in the trees of the garden because he heard the voice of the Lord God in the afternoon.
Your life is shaped by the end you live for. You are made in the image of what you desire.
Praised are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe,
Creator of light and darkness, who make peace and fashions all things.
In mercy, You illuminate the world and those who live upon it.
In Your goodness You daily renew creation.
How numerous are You works, Adonai!
In wisdom, You formed them all, filling the earth with Your creatures.
Be praised, Adonai our God, for the excellent work of your hands,
And for the lights You created; may they glorify You.
Shine a new light upon Zion, that we may swiftly merit its radiance.
Praised are You Adonai, Creator of heavenly lights.
The moon like a flower in heaven's high bower, with silent delight, sits and smiles on the night.
The mind, relaxing into needful sport, should turn to writers of an abler sort, whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.
It is worthy to note, that the early popularity of Washington was not the result of brilliant achievement nor signal success; on the contrary, it rose among trials and reverses, and may almost be said to have been the fruit of defeat.
The Idea of Order at Key West - She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, like a body wholly body, fluttering its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, that was not ours although we understood, inhuman, of the veritable ocean. The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound even if what she sang was what she heard, since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred the grinding water and the gasping wind; but it was she and not the sea we heard. For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew it was the spirit that we sought and knew that we should ask this often as she sang. If it was only the dark voice of the sea that rose, or even colored by many waves; if it was only the outer voice of sky and cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, however clear, it would have been deep air, the heaving speech of air, a summer sound repeated in a summer without end and sound alone. But it was more than that, more even than her voice, and ours, among the meaningless plungings of water and the wind, theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped on high horizons, mountainous atmospheres of sky and sea. It was her voice that made the sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world in which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, whatever self it had, became the self that was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, as we beheld her striding there alone, knew that there never was a world for her except the one she sang and, singing, made. Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, why, when the singing ended and we turned toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, the lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, as the night descended, tilting in the air, mastered the night and portioned out the sea, fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, arranging, deepening, enchanting night. Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, the maker's rage to order words of the sea, words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, and of ourselves and of our origins, in ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Who can think of the sun costuming clouds when all people are shaken or of night endazzled, proud, when people awaken and cry and cry for help?
I have played hell somewhat with the truthfulness of the colors.
But if one day you do not come to breakfast time, if I catch you through some mirror looking another look, if for nothing rattles phone in your room deserted, then, after untold anguish (as the madness of the human heart no end) find another be like you, find someone else who will be fit. Meanwhile, try to abolish at one stroke the ticking of time. Get close closer to me.
Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
For pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of space ; the sense also of extreme fixity in passing objects ; and sounds very remote and then very close ; flesh being gashed and blood sparting, a joint suddenly twisted - beneath all of which appears something very important, yet remote, to be just held in solitude.
I do think all good and evil comes from words. I have to tune myself into a good temper with something musical, and I run to a book as a child to its mother.
I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts.