Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.
My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.
I love Jesus, who said to us: Heaven and earth will pass away. When heaven and earth have passed away, my word will remain. What was your word, Jesus? Love? Forgiveness? Affection? All your words were one word: Wakeup.
Under all that we think, lives all we believe, like the ultimate veil of our spirits.
I dreamt – marvellous error! – that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.
Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.
Avoid pulpits, platforms, stages and pedestals. Keep to the hard ground. It is the only way you can judge your approximate status as a man.
The truly erotic sensibility, in evoking the image of woman, never omits to clothe it. The robing and disrobing: that is the true traffic of love.
Only a fool thinks price and value are the same.
The absence of vices adds so little to the sum of one’s virtues.
Death is something we shouldn’t fear because, while we are, death isn’t, and when death is, we aren’t.
Beware of the community in which blasphemy does not exist: underneath, atheism runs rampant.
Don’t try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.
Those who deny the existence of the truth postulate the truth of their denial and plainly contradict themselves.
Man would be “otherwise.” That’s the essence of the specifically human.
No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.
What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?
I. Don’t trace out your profile – forget your side view – all that is outer stuff. II. Look for your other half who walks always next to you and tends to be who you aren’t.
Man’s passion for truth is such that he will welcome the bitterest of all postulates so long as it strikes him as true.
The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.