"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."

For the air of lonely men surrounded him now, a still atmosphere in which the world around him slipped away, leaving him incapable of relationship, an atmosphere against which neither will nor longing availed. This was one of the significant earmarks of his life.

Once you are able to make your request in such a way that you will be quite certain of its fulfillment, then the fulfillment will come.

I have no desire to walk on water," said Siddhartha. "Let the old shamans satisfy themselves with such skills".

He saw mankind going through life in a childlike manner... which he loved but also despised.... He saw them toiling, saw them suffering, and becoming gray for the sake of things which seemed to him to be entirely unworthy of this price, for money, for little pleasures, for being slightly honoured.

The art of love-giving and taking become one.

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