Become placeless, for to change this place of water and clay is but to move from one prison to another.

To quit this troubled world is better than to enter it: the rosebud enters the garden with straitened heart and departs smiling.

The wave is ignorant of the true nature of the sea: how can the temporal comprehend the eternal?

The weeping of the candle is not in mourning for the moth: the dawn is at hand, and it is thinking of its own dark night.

The march of good fortune has backward slips: to retreat one or two paces gives wings to the jumper.

If I am mad, then who on the face of the earth is sane? If you are sane, then there is no madman in the world.

Become placeless, for to change this place of water and clay is but to move from one prison to another.