There is no way; we make the road by walking it.

There is no way; we make the road by walking it.

There is no one so bound to his own face that he does not cherish the hope of presenting another to the world.

The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

There is no road, the road is made by walking.

The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.

Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence