The armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul.

The traveller who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it.

Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice.

We are all like Scheherazade's husband, in that we want to know what happens next.

But nothing in India is identifiable, the mere asking of a question causes it to disappear or to merge in something else.

I think - I think - I think how little they think what lies so near them.

The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree rustled again.