When the body sinks into death, the essence of man is revealed. Man is a knot, a web, a mesh into which relationships are tied. Only those relationships matter. The body is an old crock that nobody will miss. I have never known a man to think of himself when dying. Never.

Action and personal happiness have no truck with each other; they are eternally at war.

What sets men at variance is but the treachery of language, for always they desire the same things.

You see, one loves the sunset when one is so sad.

The meaning of things lies not in the things themselves, but in our attitude towards them.

Nothing comes of severity if there be no leanings towards a change of heart. And if there be natural leanings towards a change of heart, what need for severity?

No one is ever satisfied where he is.