One can repent even of having repented.

I would I could stand on a busy corner, hat in hand, and beg people to throw me all their wasted hours.

Life has taught me that it is not for our faults that we are disliked and even hated, but for our qualities.

When everything else physical and mental seems to diminish, the appreciation of beauty is on the increase.

Who will free me from hurry, flurry, the feeling of a crowd pushing behind me, of being hustled and crushed? How can I regain even for a minute the feeling of ample leisure I had during my early, my creative years? Then I seldom felt fussed, or hurried. There was time for work, for play, for love, the confidence that if a task was not done at the appointed time, I easily could fit it into another hour. I used to take leisure for granted, as I did time itself.

From childhood on I have had the dream of life lived as a sacrament... the dream implied taking life ritually as something holy.

It was a morning in early summer. A silver haze shimmered and trembled over the lime trees. The air was laden with their fragrance. The temperature was like a caress. I remember - I need not recall - that I climbed up a tree stump and felt suddenly immersed in Itness. I did not call it by that name. I had no need for words. It and I were one.