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

I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.

For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.

Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.

I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.

The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all

We only believe in those thoughts which have been conceived not in the brain but in the whole body.