“A still small voice spake unto me, ‘Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?”

God gives us love! Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths; Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts, So that they pass not to the shrine of sound.

It’s better to have tried and failed than to live life wondering what would’ve happened if I had tried.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

Blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, on all things all day long

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control; these three alone lead one to sovereign power.

All things human change.

A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.

Silence, beautiful voice.

Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.

More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.

Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.

Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.

All those years of skating and dancing have carried over. I can’t design anything without thinking of how a woman’s body will look and move when she’s wearing it.

It is easy to take a photograph, but it is harder to make a masterpiece in photography than in any other art medium.

The mother of all the skills is to learn the art of paying attention – Remembering every step you make or anything that’s around you.

True art awakens the Extraordinary Ovation.

All truly great art is optimistic. The individual artist is happy in his creative work. The fact that practically all great art is tragic does not in any way change the above thesis.

Eyes water, throat burns. Sins splattered like modern art; My ritual purge.

In my mind, I see a line. And over that line, I see green fields and lovely flowers and beautiful, white women with their arms stretched out to me over that line, but I can’t seem to get there now. I can’t seem to get over that line.

No person learned the art of archery from me, who did not in the end make me his target.