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

And if I were to ask myself from what literature we who have been nurtured almost exclusively on the thoughts of Greeks and Romans, and of the Semitic race, the Jewish, may draw the corrective which is most wanted in order to make our inner life more perfect, more comprehensive, more universal, in fact more truly human a life... again I should point to India.

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

Not far from our house, and opposite the old church with the golden cross, stood a large building, even larger than the church, and having many towers.

Every life has its years in which one progresses as on a tedious and dusty street of poplars, without caring to know where he is.

As a tree, even though it has been cut down, is firm so long as its root is safe, and grows again, thus, unless the feeders of thirst are destroyed, the pain (of life) will return again and again.

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