We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
A traveler I am, and a navigator, and every day I discover a new region within my soul.
These things he said in words. But much in his heart remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.
Seven times have I despised my soul: The sixth time when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was one of her own masks.
And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless?
When you have grasped a problem clearly, face it with resolution, for that is the way of the strong.
Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me? A seeker of silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?
Art is a step in the known toward the unknown.
All things in this vast universe exist in you, with you, and for you.
A look which reveals inward stress adds more beauty to the face, no matter how much tragedy and pain it bespeaks; but the face which, in silence, does not announce hidden mysteries is not beautiful, regardless of the symmetry of its features.
The significance of a man is not in what he attains, but rather what he longs to attain.
You progress not through what has been done, but reaching towards what has yet to be done.
The lights of stars that were extinguished ages ago still reaches us. So it is with great men who died centuries ago, but still reach us with the radiations of their personalities.
Perhaps a man may commit suicide in self-defense.
The love of a parent for a child is the love that should grow towards separation.
Women opened the windows of my eyes and the doors of my spirit. Had it not been for the woman-mother, the woman-sister, and the woman-friend, I would have been sleeping among those who seek the tranquility of the world with their snoring.
The very strength that protects the heart from injury is the strength that prevents the heart from enlarging to its intended greatness within. The song of the voice is sweet, but the song of the heart is the pure voice of heaven.
And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your fields and you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Those to whom worshiping is a window, to open but also to shut, have not yet visited the house of their souls whose windows are open from dawn to dawn.
A hermit is one who renounces the world of fragments that he may enjoy the world wholly and without interruption.