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But dreams change. Fate has a way showing you paths you want more.
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The anvil of justice is planted firm, and fate who makes the sword does the forging in advance.
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We must surrender ourselves so utterly that we can never own ourselves again. We must hand over self and all its rights in an eternal covenant, and give God the absolute right to own us, control us and possess us forever.
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I have a dreadful fear that the more you try to prevent revealing the self, the more you do.
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Write. No amount of self-inflicted misery, altered states, black pullovers or being publicly obnoxious will ever add up to your being a writer. Writers write. On you go.
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The act of love is a confession.
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The word fate... is the refuge of every self-confessed failure.
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If you would know whether you have made a good confession, ask yourself I you have resolved to abandon your sins.
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I have heard thousands of confessions, but never one of covetousness.
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... it is because sympathy is but a living again through our own past in a new form, that confession often prompts a response of confession.
