It is not for me to judge another man's life. I must judge, I must choose, I must spurn, purely for myself. For myself, alone.

For me, however, that beloved, glowing little word happiness has become associated with everything I have felt since childhood upon hearing the sound of the word itself.

When we hate a person, what we hate in his image is something inside ourselves. Whatever isn't inside us can't excite us.

I am in truth the Steppenwolf that I often call myself; that beast astray that finds neither home nor joy nor nourishment in a world that is strange and incomprehensible to him.

He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colorful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself.

Everyone can reach his goal, if he can think, wait and fast.

The world, as it is now, wants to die, wants to perish — and it will.