Words can not express the joy of new life.

The day had gone by just as days go by. I had killed it in accordance with my primitive and retiring way of life.

"You do not really love me — you love nobody. Is that not true?" "Maybe," said Siddhartha wearily. "I am like you. You cannot love either, otherwise how could you practice love as an art? Perhaps people like us cannot love. Ordinary people can — that is their secret."

All interpretation, all psychology, all attempts to make things comprehensible, require the medium of theories, mythologies, and lies.

Loneliness is the way by which destiny endeavors to lead man to himself.

Beautiful was this world, looking at it thus, without searching, thus simply, thus childlike.

Love of God is not always the same as love of good.