Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

It takes more courage to dig deep in the dark corners of your own soul and the back alleys of your society than it does for a soldier to fight on the battlefield.

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.