How foolish to wear oneself out in vain longing for warmth! Solitude is independence.
You've never lived what you are thinking, and that isn't good. Only the ideas we actually live are of any value.
To nobody can you communicate in words and teachings, what happened to you in your hour of enlightenment.
Every age, every culture, every custom and tradition has its own character, its own weakness and its own strength, its beauties and cruelties; it accepts certain sufferings as matters of course, puts up patiently with certain evils. Human life is reduced to real suffering, to hell, only when two ages, two cultures and religions overlap
Sentimentality is a basking in feelings that in reality you don't take seriously enough to make the slightest sacrifice to or ever translate into action.
The world, Govinda my friend, is not imperfect, not to be seen as on a slow path toward perfection: No, it is perfect in every moment, all transgression already bears grace within itself, all little children already have the aged in themselves, all the sucklings death, all the dying eternal life.
our friendship has no other purpose, no other reason, than to show you how utterly unlike me you are.
One cannot apologize for something fundamental, and a child feels and knows this as well and as deeply as any sage.
a person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful.
A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life. I have a mad impulse to smash something, a warehouse perhaps, or a cathedral, or myself, to committ outrages.
The world was beautiful when looked at in this way-without any seeking, so simple, so childlike.
Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.
His life oscillates, as everyone's does, not merely between two poles, such as the body and the spirit, the saint and the sinner, but between thousands and thousands.
Eternity is a mere moment, just long enough for a joke.
Love can be begged, bought, or received as a gift, one can find it in the street, but one cannot steal it.
Each man had only one genuine vocation to find the way to himself.
A father can pass on his nose and eyes and even his intelligence to his child, but not his soul. In every human being the soul is new
Did all this make sense?
All interpretation, all psychology, all attempts to make things comprehensible, require the medium of theories, mythologies, and lies.
I cannot tell my story without reaching a long way back.
Is not every life, every work fine?
So you find yourself surrounded by death and horror in the world, and you escape it into lust. But lust has no duration; it leaves you again in the desert.
No, a true seeker, one who truly wished to find, could accept no doctrine. But the man who has found what he sought, such a man could approve of every doctrine, each and every one, every path, every goal; nothing separated him any longer from all those thousands of others who lived in the eternal, who breathed the Divine.
Most men will not swim before they are able to.' Is not that witty? Naturally, they won't swim! They are born for the solid earth, not for the water. And naturally they won't think. They are made for life, not for thought. Yes, and he who thinks, what's more, he who makes thought his business, he may go far in it, but he has bartered the solid earth for the water all the same, and one day he will drown.
He saw mankind going through life in a childlike manner... which he loved but also despised.... He saw them toiling, saw them suffering, and becoming gray for the sake of things which seemed to him to be entirely unworthy of this price, for money, for little pleasures, for being slightly honoured.
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