Life itself is a strange mixture. We have to take it as it is, try to understand it, and then to better it.

Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.

That which oppresses me, is it my soul trying to come out in the open, or the soul of the world knocking at my heart for entrance?

To the guests that must go, bid God's speed and brush away all traces of their steps.

He only has freedom who ideally loves freedom himself and is glad to extend it to others. He who cares to have slaves must chain himself to them. He who builds walls to create exclusion for others builds walls across his own freedom. He who distrusts freedom in others loses his moral right to it.

Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight.

Spurious fame spreads from tongue to tongue like the fog of the early dawn before the sun rises.