There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.

In the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were truths and they were all beautiful.

Work accomplished means little. It is in the past. What we all want is the glorious and living present.

What is to be got at to make the air sweet, the ground good under the feet, can only be got at by failure, trial, again and again and again failure.

It is no use. I find it impossible to work with security staring me in the face.

If I can write everything out plainly, perhaps I will myself understand better what has happened.

The disease we all have and that we have to fight against all our lives is ... the disease of self.