If I make complaint to God at being treated thus, His silence seems to grow more hostile.

If, on the authority of the great mystics, I say to myself that I am wrong to feel such affection for spiritual joys, to suffer thus when deprived of them, I answer myself that the mystics err, that in the state of conscious grace one walks safely, but that in this starless night of spiritual darkness one cannot see the way; there is no other rule than to withdraw one's foot when it touches the soft grass, and that is not sufficient, for there is also the danger of setting the foot in empty space.

Father, _Padre mio_, open your arms to me, that I may feel the warmth of your breast, filled with God! There are a hundred reasons why I should not go to Santa Scolastica, and in any case I should prefer to write.

You are here present with me more than in the body; I can become one with you, can mingle with you more easily than if you stood before me; and I need to mingle with you in thought, I need to force my soul into yours.

Perhaps I shall send you this letter, but perhaps I shall not send it.