This accidental meeting of possibilities calls itself I. I ask: what am I doing here? And, at once, this I becomes unreal.

It is not the repeated mistakes, the long succession of petty betrayals--though, God knows, they would give cause enough for anxiety and self-contempt--but the huge elementary mistake, the betrayal of that within me which is greater than I--in complacent adjustment to alien demands.

Isn't the fulfillment of our duty towards our neighbor an expression of deepest desire?

To reach perfection, we must all pass, one by one, through the death of self-effacement.

Each morning we must hold out the chalice of our being to receive, to carry, and give back. It must be held out empty - for the past must only be reflected in its polish, its shape, its capacity.

The longest journey is the journey inward.

Acts of violence-- Whether on a large or a small scale, the bitter paradox: the meaningfulness of death--and the meaninglessness of killing.