Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.

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

Beware of the community in which blasphemy does not exist: underneath, atheism runs rampant.

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

At the very smallest wheel of our reasoning it is possible for a handful of questions to break the bank of our answers.

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

The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.