Psychology is the description of the reflection of the terrestial world in the heavenly plane, or, more correctly, the description of a reflection such as we, soaked as we are in our terrestial nature, imagine it, for no reflection actually occurs, only we see earth wherever we turn.
I, however, cannot force myself to use "meat drugs" to cheat on my loneliness.
We are separated from God on two sides; the Fall separates us from Him, the Tree of Life separates Him from us.
Believing in progress does not mean believing that any progress has yet been made.
Because of impatience we were driven out [of Paradise]; because of impatience we cannot return.
In argument similes are like songs in love; they describe much, but prove nothing.
Life's splendor forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its fullness, but veiled from view, deep down, invisible, far off. It is there, though, not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If you summon it by the right word, by its right name, it will come.
The crows maintain that a single crow could destroy the heavens. There is no doubt of that, but it proves nothing against the heavens, for heaven simply means: the impossibility of crows.
This inescapable duty to observe oneself: if someone else is observing me, naturally I have to observe myself too; if none observe me, I have to observe myself all the closer.
it was like this. the brain could no longer bear the worries and pains that were imposed on it. it said: "i'm giving up; but if there is anyone else here who is interested in preserving the whole, let him assume part of my burden and it will be alright for a bit.
A belief is like a guillotine, just as heavy, just as light.
Anyone who believes cannot experience miracles. By day one does not see any stars. Anyone who does miracles says: I cannot let goof the earth.
It would have been so pointless to kill himself that, even if he had wanted to, the pointlessness would have made him unable.
There was once a community of scoundrels, that is to say, they were not scoundrels, but ordinary people.
Writer speaks a stench.
Religions get lost as people do.
Nothing, you know, gives the body greater satisfaction than ordering people about, or at least believing in one's ability to do so.
He is a free and secure citizen of the world because he is on a chain that is long enough to allow him access to all parts of the earth, and yet not so long that he could be swept over the edge of it.
He was a tool of the boss, without brains or backbone.
A man of action forced into a state of thought is unhappy until he can get out of it.
Productivity is being able to do things that you were never able to do before.
Man cannot live without a permanent trust in something indestructible in himself, though both the indestructible element and the trust may remain permanently hidden from him. One of the ways in which this hiddenness can express itself is through faith in a personal god.
The Kafka paradox: art depends on truth, but truth, being indivisable, cannot know itself: to tell the truth is to lie. thus the writer is the truth, and yet when he speakes he lies.
Two possibilities: making oneself infinitely small or being so. The second is perfection, that is to say, inactivity, the first is beginning, that is to say, action.
Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way.
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