The heaven in which the Christian by anticipation dwells is not the cosmical heaven, it is a thoroughly redemptive heaven, a heaven become what it is through the progressive upbuilding and enrichment pertaining to the age-long work of God in the sphere of redemption.

Whether one says: the body of humiliation is transformed into a body of glory, or says, the corruptible puts on incorruption, the mortal immortality, makes no difference whatever as to the principle of continuity.

there is something about these expectations and visions of the last things, that will send them into the light and focus of the consciousness of believers, whenever storms of persecution arise and hard distresses invade.

This life is first hid with Christ, because it is a disembodied life; at the last day it will become manifest through union with the eschatological body.

It was not that she was out of temper, but that the world was not equal to the demands of her fine organism.

Just as when we come into the world, when we die we are afraid of the unknown. But the fear is something from within us that has nothing to do with reality. Dying is like being born: just a change. - Clara the clairvoyant

I felt like I'd been emptied out from the inside, I was a bloody cavity, I couldn't breathe, my bones were made of wax, my soul had taken flight. And the world still turned as if nothing had happened: I stand up, take one step then another, find my voice and respond, I haven't lost my mind, I drink water, my mouth full of sand, my eyes burning, and my little girl stiff, frozen, sculpted in alabaster

I was born in 1920, during the influenza pandemic, and I'm going to die in 2020, during the outbreak of coronavirus. What an elegant name for such a terrible scourge.

Occasions for appealing to public compassion are never wanting in a nation eternally rocked by catastrophes that shake the foundations of life, floods that sweep away entire towns, gigantic waves that deposit ships in the center of a plaza. We are created in the idea that life is precarious, and we are always waiting for the next calamity to happen.

Recently, a busload of us tourists crossing the border between Chile and Argentina had to wait an hour and a half while our documents were checked. Getting through the Berlin Wall was easier. Kafka was Chilean.

But beyond confusion and rage, the strongest feeling I remember having that night was frustrated desire, because I would never be able to satisfy my need to run my hands over Rosa's body, to penetrate her secrets, to release the green fountain of her hair and plunge into its deepest waters.

You have come into a hard world. I know of only one easy place in it, and that is the grave.