The hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings.

I hang onto my prejudices, they are the testicles of my mind.

However much we guard against it, we tend to shape ourselves in the image others have of us.

There is need for some kind of make-believe in order to face death unflinchingly. To our real, naked selves there is not a thing on earth or in heaven worth dying for.

Compassion is the antitoxin of the soul.

Man was nature's mistake she neglected to finish him and she has never ceased paying for her mistake.

To believe that if we could have but this or that we would be happy is to suppress the realization that the cause of our unhappiness is in our inadequate and blemished selves. Excessive desire is thus a means of suppressing our sense of worthlessness.