The mighty hero of extraordinary powers, able to lift Mount Govardhan on a finger, and to fill himself with the terrible glory of the universe, is each of us: not the physical self visible in the mirror, but the King within.

Poetry comes out of an elite experience, the experience of people whose ears are opened to the song of the universe.

The concept of time shuts off eternity.

If you are on the right path you will find that invisible hands are helping.

Life is but a mask worn on the face of death. And is death, then, but another mask? 'How many can say,' asks the Aztec poet, 'that there is, or is not, a truth beyond?'

I should have said, 'Follow your blisters.'

The perfect human being is uninteresting.