You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation...and that is called loving. Well, then, love your suffering. Do not resist it, do not flee from it. It is your aversion that hurts, nothing else.

A magic dwells in each beginning, protecting us, telling us how to live.

Love is like death. It is fulfillment and an evening after which nothing more may follow.

The bourgeois treasures nothing more highly than the self.... And so at the cost of intensity he achieves his own preservation andsecurity. His harvest is a quiet mind which he prefers to being possessed by God, as he prefers comfort to pleasure, convenience to liberty, and a pleasant temperature to that deathly inner consuming fire.

To die is to go into the Collective Unconscious, to lose oneself in order to be transformed into form, pure form.

Oh, love isn't there to make us happy. I believe it exists to show us how much we can endure.

He saw that the water continually flowed and flowed and yet it was always there; it was always the same and yet every moment it was new.