But your questions, which are unanswerable without exception, all spring from the same erroneous thinking.

our friendship has no other purpose, no other reason, than to show you how utterly unlike me you are.

That's the way it is when you love. It makes you suffer, and I have suffered much in the years since. But it matters little that you suffer, so long as you feel alive with a sense of the close bond that connects all living things, so long as love does not die!

"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."

A father can pass on his nose and eyes and even his intelligence to his child, but not his soul. In every human being the soul is new

Each man carries the vestiges of his birth; the slime and eggshells of his primeval past with him to the end of his days. Some never become human, remaining frog, lizard, ant. Some are human above the waist, fish below.

Did all this make sense?