Meaning and reality were not hidden somewhere behind things, they were in them, in all of them.

I wanted only to live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult?

...and the vessel was not full, his intellect was not satisfied, his soul was not at peace, his heart was not still.

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.

If my life were not a dangerous, painful experiment, if I did not constantly skirt the abyss and feel the void under my feet, my life would have no meaning and I would not have been able to write anything.

Perhaps people like us cannot love. Ordinary people can - that is their secret.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. . . . Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.