A traveller I am, and a navigator, and everyday I discover a new region within my soul.

The silence of the envious is too noisy.

It was in my heart to help a little because I was helped much.

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

if you cannot but weep when your soul summons you to prayer, she should spur you again and yet again, though weeping, until you shall come laughing

If you sing of beauty though alone in the heart of the desert you will have an audience.

Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox, whose philosopher is a juggler, and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking. Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpetings, and farewells him with hootings, only to welcome another ruler with trumpetings again. Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years and whose strong men are yet in the cradle. Pity the nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation.