I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.

Life is the path you beat while you walk it It's the walking that beats the path It is not the path that makes the walk

No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.

My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. (Walk, there is no path, the path is made by walking.)