The intellectual is constantly betrayed by his vanity. God-like, he blandly assumes that he can express everything in words; whereas the things one loves, lives, and dies for are not, in the last analysis, completely expressible in words.

Him that I love, I wish to be Free- Even from me.

No new sect ever had humor; no disciples either, even the disciples of Christ.

Only with winter-patience can we bring The deep-desired, long-awaited spring.

To mention a loved object, a person, or a place to someone else is to invest that object with reality.

Only in growth, reform, and change, paradoxically enough, is true security to be found.

When one is a stranger to oneself then one is estranged from others too.

For sleep, one needs endless depths of blackness to sink into; daylight is too shallow, it will not cover one.

What a commentary on our civilization, when being alone is considered suspect; when one has to apologize for it, make excuses, hide the fact that one practices it-like a secret vice!

Grief can't be shared. Everyone carries it alone, his own burden, his own way.