Truly, nothing in the world has so occupied my thoughts as this I, this riddle, the fact I am alive, that I am separated and isolated from all others, that I am Siddhartha! And about nothing in the world do I know less about than me, about Siddhartha!

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

What is the holding of breath? It is a flight from the Self, it is a temporary escape from the torment of Self. It is a temporary palliative against the pain and folly of life.

A tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me!... Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

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.

Knowledge can communicated but not wisdom.

Art is contemplation of the world in a state of grace and imaginatively reflecting that subjective understanding.