The dreamer dreams, and the dreamer within the dream dreams.

There seems to be no unexpressed self in animals, as if they are as fully themselves in flesh as possible, with no lag of consciousness to fill up, while we keep trying to grow into something else.

The human personality has no limitations except those which it accepts.

What magicians we are, turning darkness into light, transforming invisible atoms into dazzling theater of the world, pulling objects, (people as well as rabbits) out of secret microscopic closets, turning winter into summer, making a palmful of moments disappear through time's trap door. We learned the methods so long ago that they're unconscious, and we've hypnotized ourselves into believing that we're the audience, so I wonder where we served our apprenticeship. Under what master magicians did we learn to form reality so smoothly that we forgot to tell ourselves the secret?

Each of us seems to have a main focus, a particular idea of practicality - a concept of 'what we want out of life' against which we judge our experiences.

The channels of intuitive knowledge are opened according to the intensity of individual need.

Hate is love looking for itself everyplace but where love is.