Reality is how we interpret it. Imagination and volition play a part in that interpretation. Which means that all reality is to some extent a fiction.
The presence of God is the finest of rewards.
I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye.
Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is but the passing shadow of a cloud...
If you stumble about believability, what are you living for? Love is hard to believe, ask any lover. Life is hard to believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer. What is your problem with hard to believe?
In art, something comes of nothing. Out of the thin air and the ether, you create a story. And that is intensely satisfying.
Just as music is noise that makes sense, a painting is colour that makes sense, so a story is life that makes sense.
We commonly say in the trade that the most dangerous animal in a zoo is Man.
You must take life the way it comes at you and make the best of it.
Misery loves company, and madness calls it forth.
It is life’s only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life.
I go to mass every Sunday, but love going to mosques too. Muslims pray in a beautiful way.
Time is an illusion that makes us all pant.
Nature can put on a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special effects is absolutely unlimited.
The worst pair of opposites is boredom and terror. Sometimes your life is a pendulum swing from one to the other.
Survival starts by paying attention to what is close at hand and immediate. To look out with idle hope is tantamount to dreaming one’s life away.
My greatest wish – other than salvation – was to have a book. A long book with a never-ending story. One I could read again and again, with new eyes and a fresh understanding each time.
The paths to liberation are numerous, but the bank along the way is always the same, the Bank of Karma, where the liberation account of each of us is credited or debited depending on our actions.
Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart.
The world isn’t just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no? Doesn’t that make life a story?