I stopped loving my father a long time ago. What remained was the slavery to a pattern.

Life, religion and art all converge in Bali. They have no word in their language for 'artist' or 'art.' Everyone is an artist.

Mature people relate to each other without the need to merge.

Life is a full circle, widening until it joins the circle motions of the infinite.

Warmth, perfume, rugs, soft lights, books. They do not appease me. I am aware of time passing, of all the world contains that I have not seen, of all the interesting people I have not met.

I see enormous loves growing immense and finally crushing me.

I did not feel drawn to huxley. He was beautiful physically but again without vibrations or sensory antennae... and I had a painful impression of a psychic blindness. With all his science and knowledge, in the mystic world he blundered.