Man is really free, the real man cannot but be free.
The apparent man is only a limitation of that Real Man.
The real man is the one Unit Existence.
Real love is love for love’s sake. I do not ask health or money or life or salvation.
Renunciation, and renunciation alone, is the real secret, the Mulamantra, of all Realisation.
The meditative state is the highest state of existence. So long as there is desire, no real happiness can come. It is only the contemplative, witness-like study of objects that brings to us real enjoyment and happiness.
Think always: I am ever-pure, ever-knowing, and ever-free. How can I do anything evil? Can I ever be befooled like ordinary people with the insignificant charms of lust and wealth? Strengthen the mind with such thoughts. This will surely bring real good.
Realize all this as illusion, realize that within the illusion is the Real.
Without birth or death, eternal, ever-existing, free, unchangeable and beyond all conditions is this Soul of man – the real Self of Man – the Atman.
Real loneliness consists not in being alone, but in being with the wrong person, in the suffocating darkness of a room in which no deep communication is possible.
The real danger is not that computers will begin to think like men, but that men will begin to think like computers.
What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit’s cry may be wilder But it has no soul.
What is so real as the cry of a child?
I feel, am mad as any writer must in one way be; why not make it real? I am too close to the bourgeois society of suburbia: too close to people I know I must sever my self from them, or be a part of their world: this half and half compromise is intolerable.
For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds...
You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
I want to force myself again and again to leave the warmth and security of static situations and move into the world of growth and suffering where the real books are people’s minds and souls.
Poetry is not an assertion of truth, but the making of that truth more fully real to us.
There is no absolute point of view from which real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled.