Look, lovers: almost separately they come towards us through the flowery grass and slowly; parting's so far from thought of, they indulge the extravagance of walking unembraced.

Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, Must I write?

The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate.

You are nearing the land that is life; you will recognize it by its seriousness.

There is only one journey. Going inside yourself.

Is not impermanence the very fragrance of our days?

It seems to me that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension, which we feel as paralysis because we no longer hear our astonished emotions living.