Ego is vital but not noble.

The bushes of love are blossomed through the manure of hardship.

My existence is such that "I" do not really exist. At the end of understanding so much I understand that I know nothing. I suffer for being surrounded by intense suffering and yet I'm deeply suspicious if first of all there is indeed any consciousness except me. I strive to find the artist who might have fathered this great universal art but feel myself to be too feeble to accomplish this seemingly unattainable mission. Yet I have every respect for life, and it is this sheer respect that makes me live.

History is an orphan. It can speak, but cannot hear. It can give, but cannot take. Its wounds and tragedies can be read and known, but cannot be avoided or cured.

The stem of greatness sprouts from the seed of sacrifice.

At the heart of my metaphysic there is the ultimate question and at the heart of the universe there is the ultimate questioner.

The most fundamental tragedy of my life is that the ones who I see do not exist and the one who exists I do not see.