“Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools.”

There are voices crying what must be done, a hundred, a thousand voices.

For mines are for men, not for money. And money is not something to go mad about, and throw your hat into the air for.

Now God be thanked that the name of a hill is such music, that the name of a river can heal.

To give up the task of reforming society is to give up one’s responsibility as a free man.

Ask yourself not if this or that is expedient, but if it is right.

But the one thing that has power completely is love, because when a man loves, he seeks no power, and therefore he has power.

I am a weak and sinful man, but God put His hands on me, that is all.

The tragedy is not that things are broken.

When men are ruled by fear, they strive to prevent the very changes that will abate it.

But I have learned that kindness and love can pay for pain and suffering.

Who knows for what we live, and struggle, and die?…

Cry for the broken tribe, for the law and the custom that is gone. Aye, and cry aloud for the man who is dead, for the woman and children bereaved.

We do not work for men. We work for the land and the people. We do not even work for money.

Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply… For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.

When the storm threatens, a man is afraid for his house.

The ground is holy, being even as it came from the Creator.

Believe me, sir, never a night goes by, be I ever so tired, but I read the Word of God before I go to bed.

“What’s miraculous about a spider’s web?” said Mrs. Arable. “I don’t see why you say a web is a miracle–it’s just a web.” “Ever try to spin one?” asked Mr. Dorian.

No army has ever done so much with so little.

I’m trying everything. But voice work is the best thing you ever imagined. It’s not about how you look, and you can go to work in your PJs.

It is unity that doth enchant me. By her power I am free though thrall, happy in sorrow, rich in poverty, and quick even in death.

I have been battering away at Saturn, returning to the charge every now and then. I have effected several breaches in the solid ring, and now I am splash into the fluid one, amid a clash of symbols truly astounding.

But this night our feet must tread in thorny paths, or later, and for ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame!

What’s better? Dogs or broomsticks? I mean will the world really ever know?