Somewhere along the way one discovers that what one has to tell is not nearly so important as the telling itself.

Through endless night the earth whirls toward a creation unknown.

Sin, guilt, neurosis; they are one and the same, the fruit of the tree of knowledge.

There is something else to be said about this immediate, spontaneous way of working, and that is this: in such moments, one is playing at the game of creation.

The art of living is based on rhythm - on give & take, ebb & flow, light & dark, life & death. By acceptance of all aspects of life, good & bad, right & wrong, yours & mine, the static, defensive life, which is what most people are cursed with, is converted into a dance, 'the dance of life,' metamorphosis.

The world is the mirror of myself dying.

They were painfully clean. But inwardly they stank. Never once had they opened the door which leads to the soul; never once did they dream of taking a blind leap into the dark.