Flaubert claimed that we each have a royal room in our hearts into which only very few are admitted.

What matters is how well we have loved.

I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love$$$ before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.

The mystery of one man is too immense and too profound to be explained by another man.

Waiting is a dry desert between where we are and where we want to be.

The spiritual life does not remove us from the world but leads us deeper into it.

At some point$$$ your memories$$$ your stories$$$ your adventures$$$ will be the only things you'll have left.

For a while is a phrase whose length can't be measured. At least by the person who's waiting.

From my rotting body$$$ flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.

Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty.