In The Confessions, [by Saint Augustine] the heart is pure protean marvel. It is mouth and ears and eyes. It is a dwelling with a door of its own, on which truth can knock, enter, illumine with the light of certainty, and rain down gentleness within. A heart can be tested, crushed, darkened, broken, hurled hither and thither, taken hold of, pegged down, made to stand still, inebriated, and impregnated by the Spirit. It can pant with anxiety and seethe with feverish, corruptive thoughts, or be the starting place for our climb of the upward paths, singing our songs of ascent.
— Gail Godwin, Heart