I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
While love ceaselessly strives toward that which lies at the hiddenmost center, hatred only perceives the topmost surface . . .
Love is at the Center of our being, and the calm, continuous pulsations of life are governed by Love.
Like society, the diary is a world of useless secrets. Everything is there, yet there is nothing.
The inner world: those spiritual apartments to which we are reluctant to admit strangers.
We are trying to communicate that which lies in our deepest heart, which has no words, which can only be hinted at through the means of a story.
But what do we know of the heart nearest to our own? What do we know of our own heart?
When a man talks from his heart, in his moment of truth, he speaks poetry.
When you are in your heart of hearts, you can see beyond appearances.
Wine displays every little spot of the soul in its utmost deformity.
No matter what these people say about me, my music doesn't glorify any image. My music is spiritual when you listen to it. It's all about emotion, I tell my innermost, darkest secrets.
The inexpressible depth of music, so easy to understand and yet so inexplicable, is due to the fact that it reproduces all the emotions of our innermost being, but entirely without reality and remote from its pain… Music expresses only the quintessence of life and its events, never these themselves.
The inmost spirit of poetry, in other words, is at bottom, in every recorded case, the voice of pain – and the physical body, so to speak, of poetry, is the treatment by which the poet tries to reconcile that pain with the world.
A television chat show is light entertainment, so it is trivial by its very nature. It is hardly the place to get people to reveal their innermost thoughts. Then it becomes sensationalism, and you lower yourself to the level of the popular newspapers.
I have no memories I'm prepared to share with you.
The things that are most precious to us are sometimes the most secret.
There are many things in your heart you can never tell to another person. They are you, your private joys and sorrows, and you can never tell them. You cheapen yourself, the inside of yourself, when you tell them.
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.
Love opens the doors into everything, as far as I can see, including and perhaps most of all, the door into one's own secret, and often terrible and frightening, real self.
It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world.
There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.
When we understand every single secret of the universe, there will still be left the eternal mystery of the human heart.
Self-interest is an ineffable feeling which shall follow us into God's very presence since they say there is a hierarchy even among the Holy Saints.
Only the soul knows what love is.
The heart makes dreams seem like ideas.
