A man's character is his fate.
It's very good for an idea to be commonplace. The important thing is that a new idea should develop out of what is already there so that it soon becomes an old acquaintance. Old acquaintances aren't by any means always welcome, but at least one can't be mistaken as to who or what they are.
The only guide to man is his conscience; the only shield to his memory is the rectitude and sincerity of his actions. It is very imprudent to walk through life without this shield, because we are so often mocked by the failure of our hopes and the upsetting of our calculations; but with this shield, however the fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honor.
If I'd have gone to art school, or stayed in anthropology, I probably would have ended up back in film ... Mostly I just followed my inner feelings and passions ... and kept going to where it got warmer and warmer, until it finally got hot ... Everybody has talent. It's just a matter of moving around until you've discovered what it is.
The true beloveds of this world are in their lover's eyes lilacs opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a child's Sunday, lost voices, one's favorite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory, yes, it being the earth and water of existence, memory.
We grow great by dreams. All big men are dreamers. They see things in the soft haze of a spring day or in the red fire of a long winter's evening. Some of us let these great dreams die, but others nourish and protect them; nurse them through bad days till they bring them to the sunshine and light which comes always to those who sincerely hope that their dreams will come true.
If one feels the need of something grand, something infinite, something that makes one feel aware of God, one need not go far to find it. I think that I see something deeper, more infinite, more eternal than the ocean in the expression of the eyes of a little baby when it wakes in the morning and coos or laughs because it sees the sun shining on its cradle.
In the attic, a warhead no doubt burns. Everything is combustible. Faith burns. Trust burns. Everything burns to nothing and even nothing burns. . . . And when there is nothing, there is nothing worth dying for and when there is nothing worth dying for, there is only nothing.
The Lord builds up Jerusalem,And gathers nations to his Name:His mercy melts the stubborn soul,And makes the broken spirit whole.He form'd the stars, those heavenly flames,He counts their numbers, calls their names:His wisdom's vast, and knows no bound,A deep where all our thoughts are drown'd.Great is our Lord, and great his might;And all his glories infinite:He crowns the meek, rewards the just,And treads the wicked to the dust.Sing to the Lord, exalt him high,Who spreads his cloud all round the sky,There he prepares the fruitful rain,Nor lets the drops descend in vain.He makes the grass the hills adorn,And clothes the smiling fields with corn,The beasts with food his hands supply,And the young ravens when they cry.What is the creature's skill or force,The sprightly man, the warlike horse,The nimble wit, the active limb?All are too mean delights for him.But saints are lovely in his sight;He views his children with delight:He sees their hope, he knows their fear,And looks and loves his image there.