While the river of life glides along smoothly, it remains the same river; only the landscape on either bank seems to change.

Of these years nought remains in memory but the sad feeling that we have advanced and only grown older.

Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, and the chrysalis a butterfly, and the butterfly dust?

To me this technical acceptation seems not applicable here, where we have to deal with the simplest moral precepts, and not with psychological niceties of Buddhist philosophy.

I believe I can even yet remember when I saw the stars for the first time.

There is no book in the world that is so thrilling, stirring and inspiring as the Upanishads.

There never was a false god, nor was there ever really a false religion, unless you call a child a false man.