Tea...is a religion of the art of life.

Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.

Cares melt when you kneel in your garden.

The outsider may indeed wonder at this seeming much ado about nothing. What a tempest in a tea-cup! he will say. But when we consider how small after all the cup of human enjoyment is, how soon overflowed with tears, how easily drained to the dregs in our quenchless thirst for infinity, we shall not blame ourselves for making so much of the tea-cup.

It is not the accumulation of extraneous knowledge, but the realization of the self within, that constitutes true progress.

Perfection is everywhere if we only choose to recognise it.

In the worship of Bacchus, we have sacrificed too freely.... Why not consecrate ourselves to the queen of the Camelias, and revel in the warm stream of sympathy that flows from her altar? In the liquid amber within the ivory-porcelain, the initiated may touch the sweet reticence of Confucius.