I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me.

I have no right to call myself one who knows. I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seek in the stars or in books; I'm beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me. My story isn't pleasant, it's not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.

Human life is reduced to real suffering, to hell, only when two ages, two cultures and religions overlap.

To achieve the possible, we must attempt the impossible again and again.

Every sin already carries grace within in, all small children are potential old men, all sucklings have death within them, all dying people - eternal life. The Buddha exists in the robber and dice player; the robber exists in the Brahmin.

Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.

Life is always frightful. We cannot help it and we are responsible all the same. One's born and at once one is guilty.