It Often Happens That What Stares Us

The Truth Is, Indeed, That Love Is The Threshold Of Another Universe.

Without You, Without Your Onslaughts, Without Your Uprootings Of Us, We Should Remain All Our Lives Inert, Stagnant, Puerile, Ignorant Both Of Ourselves And Of God. You Who Batter Us And Then Dress Our Wounds, You Who Resist Us And Yield To Us, You Who Wreck And Build, You Who Shackle And Liberate, The Sap Of Our Souls, The Hand Of God, The Flesh Of Christ: It Is You, Matter, That I Bless.

The World Is Round So That Friendship May Encircle It.

Humanity Has Been Sleeping-and Still Sleeps-lulled Within The Narrowly Confining Joys Of Its Little Closed Loves. In The Depths Of The Human Multitude There Slumbers An Immense Spiritual Power Which Will Manifest Itself Only When We Have Learnt How To Break Through The Dividing Walls Of Our Egoism And Raise Ourselves Up To An Entirely New Perspective, So That Habitually And In A Practical Fashion We Fix Our Gaze On The Universal Realities.

To Write The True Natural History Of The World, We Should Need To Be Able To Follow It From Within. It Would Thus Appear No Longer As An Interlocking Succession Of Structural Types Replacing One Another, But As An Ascension Of Inner Sap Spreading Out In A Forest Of Consolidated Instincts. Right At Its Base, The Living World Is Constituted By Conscious Clothes In Flesh And Bone.