Siddhartha stopped fighting his fate this very hour, and he stopped suffering.

What you call passion is not spiritual force, but friction between the soul and the outside world.

There are always a few such people who demand the utmost of life and yet cannot come to terms with its stupidity and crudeness.

If I know what love is, it is because of you.

I live in my dreams — that's what you sense. Other people live in dreams, but not in their own. That's the difference.

Yes, I am going into the woods; I am going into the unity of all things.

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.