Many is the mirage I chased. Always I was overreaching myself. The oftener I touched reality, the harder I bounced back to the world of illusion, which is the name for everyday life.

Why are we so full of restraint? Why do we not give in all directions? Is it fear of losing ourselves? Until we do lose ourselves there is no hope of finding ourselves.

We are dancing in the hollow of nothingness. We are one flesh, but separated like stars.

We don't trust our five senses; we rely on our critics and educators, all of whom are failures in the realm of creation.

The world itself is pregnant with failure, is the perfect manifestation of imperfection, of the consciousness of failure.

The enchanting, and sometimes terrifying, thing is that the world can be so many things to so many different souls. That it can be, and is, all these things at once and the same time.

Every man is working out his destiny in his own way and nobody can be of any help except by being kind, generous, and patient.