Tomorrow morning the critic will be gone, but the writer will still be there facing the blank page. Nothing matters but that he keep working.
At the beginning, the author’s writing was like a selfie: a disposable plea for attention that was all about him and his life. But since he hadn’t done much living, there wasn’t much substance.
We’re facing dragons too. Fire-breathing griffins of the soul, whom we must outfight and outwit to reach the treasure of our self-in-potential and to release the maiden who is God’s plan and destiny for ourselves and the answer to why we were put on this planet.
Who profits from a king’s fidelity save generations a thousand years unborn, and which of his works will they recall at that remove, or care?
The pain of being human is that we’re all angels imprisoned in vessels of flesh.
Bhagavad-Gita tells us we have a right only to our labor, not to the fruits of our labor.
Improvisation is not a wild scramble at the last minute. You are not pulling plans out of thin air. Improvisation is the payoff of scrupulous preparation and drill.
Figure out where you want to go; then work backwards from there.
This is how Resistance disfigures love. The stew it creates is rich, it’s colorful; Tennessee Williams could work it up into a trilogy. But is it love? If we’re the supporting partner, shouldn’t we face our own failure to pursue our unlived life, rather than hitchhike on our spouse’s coattails? And if we’re the supported partner, shouldn’t we step out from the glow of our loved one’s adoration and instead encourage him to let his own light shine?
Colonel L., in whose eyes I was a first-rate Riot Acter or, worse, an intellectual – in his phrase, “someone who reads books” – the most damning appraisal that could be made of a junior lieutenant.
We know that if we embrace our ideals, we must prove worthy of them. And that scares the hell out of us.
The capacity for empathy and self-restraint will serve us powerfully, not only in our external wars but in the conflicts within our own hearts.
Resistance is diabolical. It can harness our drive for greatness and our instinct for professionalism and yoke them, instead, to a shadow profession, whose demands will keep us from turning our energies toward their true course.
Stay primitive. Trust the soup. Swing for the seats.
The hero wanders. The hero suffers. The hero returns.
We get ourselves in trouble because it’s a cheap way to get attention. Trouble is a faux form of fame.
It may be that the human race is not ready for freedom. The air of liberty may be too rarefied for us to breathe. Certainly I wouldn’t be writing this book, on this subject, if living with freedom were easy. The paradox seems to be, as Socrates demonstrated long ago, that the truly free individual is free only to the extent of his own self-mastery. While those who will not govern themselves are condemned to find masters to govern over them.
The more important an activity is to your soul’s evolution, the more you will feel resistance to it.
In other words, any act that rejects immediate gratification in favor of long-term growth, health, or integrity.
Decisions are crazy. Sometimes all it takes to get over the hump is a friend who gives you permission.
Every warrior virtue proceeds from this – courage, selflessness, love of and loyalty to one’s comrades, patience, self-command, the will to endure adversity.