We kill when we close our eyes to poverty, affliction, or infamy. We kill when, because it is easier, we countenance, or pretend to approve of atrophied social, political, educational, and religious institutions, instead of resolutely combating them.

But it's a poor fellow who can't take his pleasure without asking other people's permission.

Toward seven o'clock every morning, I leave my study and step Out on the bright terrace; the sun already burns resplendent Between the shadows of the fig tree, makes the low wall of coarse Granite warm to the touch. Here my tools lie ready and waiting, Each one an intimate, an ally: the round basket for weeds: The zappetta, the small hoe with a short haft . . . There's a rake here as well, at at times a mattock and spade, Or two watering cans filled with water warmed by the sun. With my basket and small hoe in hand, facing the sun, I Go out for my morning walk.

Om is the bow, the arrow is soul.

When you like someone, you like them in spite of their faults. When you love someone, you love them with their faults.

The world was beautiful when looked at in this way-without any seeking, so simple, so childlike.

If time is not real, then the dividing line between this world and eternity, between suffering and bliss, between good and evil, is also an illusion.