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The artist belongs to his work, not the work to the artist.
A writer is a world trapped in a person.
This is excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune — often the surfeit of our own behaviour — we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity: fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star!
A pack of blessings lights upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love;
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?
Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet
In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.
All that we can ever aspire to is to become more and more one with God.
And it shall be my endeavor to reveal Thee in my actions, knowing it is Thy power gives me strength to act.
You are weaving your bondage of falsehood, your words are full of deception: With the load of desires which you hold on your head, how can you be light?
As the river enters into the ocean, so my heart touches Thee.
Truth has always had many loud proclaimers, but the question is whether a person will in the deepest sense acknowledge the truth, allow it to permeate his whole being, accept all its consequences, and not have an emergency hiding place for himself and a Judas kiss for the consequence.
As the worm, crawling in the dust of the earth, cannot rise like the eagle above the clouds, so the self-willing thought of man, wandering in the labyrinth of conflicting opinions, does not enter the realm of eternal truth.
Neither animal nor reasoning man can create God, but the lilybud of divinity unfolds itself in man by its own power.
There is a secret conspiracy between all “insides” and all “outsides”, and the conspiracy is this: To look as different as possible and yet underneath to be identical.
The myths underlying our culture and our common sense have not taught us to feel identical with the universe, but only with parts of it.
Like a stone in a shoe which he stubbornly refuses to remove, the fault still remains in his character when he stubbornly insists on blaming things or condemning persons for its consequences.
My life and death I have put equally
Into thy hand; Let not rewards, nor hopes,
Be cast into the scale to turn thy faith.
Be honest but for virtue’s sake, that’s all.
He, that has such a Treasure, cannot fall.
Do not cheat thy Heart and tell her, “Grief will pass away, hope for fairer times in future, and forget to-day.” — Tell her, if you will, that sorrow need not come in vain; tell her that the lesson taught her far outweighs the pain.
Whenever you find a man who says he doesn’t believe in a real Right and Wrong, you will find the same man going back on this a moment later.
When the mind is silent, when it is no longer projecting itself into the future, wishing for something; when the mind is really quiet, profoundly peaceful, the unknown comes into being. You don’t have to search for it. You cannot invite it. That which you can invite is only that which you know. You cannot invite an unknown guest. You can only invite one you know. But you do not know the unknown, God, reality, or what you will. It must come. It can come only when the field is right, when the soil is tilled, but if you till in order for it to come, then you will not have it.
The understanding of oneself is not a result, a culmination; it is seeing oneself from moment to moment in the mirror of relationship — one’s relationship to property, to things, to people and to ideas.