Each of us is a miracle. Alas, it is a fact we too often forget.

We are prisoners of our own metaphors, metaphorically speaking.

Miracles are not external events; they are the internal shifts that transform our perception of the world.

We reveal ourselves in the metaphors we choose for depicting the cosmos in miniature.

... for we perceive that this miraculous development is not the result of our own efforts: an eternal Perfection is moulding us into its own image.

We are what we imagine ourselves to be.

The world, as we perceive it, is our own invention.

From without, no wonderful effect is wrought within ourselves, unless some interior, responding wonder meets it. That the starry vault shall surcharge the heart with all rapturous marvelings, is only because we ourselves are greater miracles, and superber trophies than all the stars in universal space.

It is our own thoughts that hold the key to miraculous transformation.

Our mirrors are you and me and through them, we learn to see.

The world is a mirror into which we look, and see our own image.

It’s all interlocking miracles, but because they’re explicable, we overlook them.

If they were inexplicable, we’d live in an unnavigable hell.

Miracles... seem to me to rest not so much upon... healing power coming suddenly near us from afar but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that, for a moment, our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there around us always.

If it is worthy — the book, as the love — and if we are lucky, it reflects us back to ourselves magnified yet transformed