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.

I dreamt -- marvellous error! -- that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.

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

The great philosophers are poets who believe in the reality of their poems.

Death is something we don't have to fear, since as long as we exist death doesn't and when it does we don't.

Man would be "otherwise." That's the essence of the specifically human.

XXIX Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking. Traveller, the path is your tracks And nothing more. Traveller, there is no path The path is made by walking. By walking you make a path And turning, you look back At a way you will never tread again Traveller, there is no road Only wakes in the sea.