It is not the interior of one's house, but the interior of one's mind
which makes home.

It seems to me that to be, is to love. I can conceive of no state of
existence which is not permeated with this feeling toward something,
somebody or the illimitable "nothing" which is mother to everything.

I wish we had more religion in the world and fewer churches.

People who believe in no God, invariably exalt themselves into His
position, and worship with the very idolatry they decry in others.

Music is the echo of the rhythm of God's respirations.

Poetry is the effort of the divine part of man to formulate a worthy
language in which to converse with angels.

Painting and sculpture seem to me the most presumptuous of the arts.
They are an effort of man to outdo God in creation. He never made a
perfect form or face--the artist alone makes them.

I am sure I do not play the organ as well at St Blank's as I played
it in the little church where I gave my services and was unknown.
People are praising me too much here, and this mars all spontaneity.

The very first hour of positive success is often the last hour of
great achievement. So soon as we are conscious of the admiring and
expectant gaze of men, we cease to commune with God. It is when we