A person or an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana, a person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful. It does really seem like this, because we are subject to deception, as if time was something real. Time is not real.
Let every reader do as his conscience bids him.
Escribir es cosa buena, pero mejor es pensar. La prudencia es buena, pero la paciencia es mejor.
Siempre he tenido sed de conocimientos, siempre he estado lleno de interrogaciones.
Disclosing his wound to this listener was the same as bathing it in the river, until it became cool and one with the river.
This is why I am continuing my travels – not to seek other, better teachings, for I know there are none, but to depart from all teachings and all teachers and to reach my goal by myself or to die.
Zo vallen rondom een herfstboom de bladeren, hij voelt het niet, regen stroomt van hem af, of zon, of vorst en binnenin hem trekt het leven zich tot het uiterste en verborgenste terug. Hij sterft niet. Hij wacht.
Wer lieben kann, ist glusklick.
Fate and character are different names for the same idea.
I closed my eyes obediently; I felt a light kiss on my lips, on which there was always a little accumulation of blood that wouldn’t decrease. And then I fell asleep.
Once all of the Self was overcome and had died, once every desire and every urge was silent in the heart, then the ultimate part of me had to awake, the innermost of my being, which is no longer Self – the great secret.
I will learn from myself, be my own pupil; I will learn from myself the secret of Siddhartha.
One can pass on knowledge but not wisdom. One can find wisdom, one can live it, one can be supported by it, one can work wonders with it, but one cannot speak it or teach it.
You broke through the humor of my little theater and tried to make a mess of it, stabbing with knives and spattering our pretty picture-world with the mud of reality.
And all this, I said, just as today was the case with the beginnings of wireless, would be of no more service to man than as an escape from himself and his true aims, and a means of surrounding himself with an ever closer mesh of distractions and useless activities.
Troubled, yet also with laughter, he recalled that time. He remembered that at that time he had boasted of three things to Kamala, three noble and invincible arts: fasting, waiting and thinking.
The golden trail was blazed and I was reminded of the eternal, of Mozart, of the stars. For an hour I could breathe again and live and face existence, without having to suffer torment, fear or shame.
Perhaps, people of our kind can’t love. The childlike people can; that’s their secret.
You poets are accustomed to finding words for everything beautiful and you don’t even grant that people have hearts if they are less talkative about their feelings than you.
But he has not killed himself, for a glimmer of belief still tells him that he is to drink this frightful suffering in his heart to the dregs, and that it is of this suffering he must die.