To Think Of Him In

There Are Only Two Kinds Of Freedom In The World; The Freedom Of The Rich And Powerful, And The Freedom Of The Artist And The Monk Who Renounces Possessions.

I Stopped Loving My Father A Long Time Ago. What Remained Was The Slavery To A Pattern.

The Suppression Of Inner Patterns In Favor Of Patterns Created By Society Is Dangerous To Us.

Coming Near Him Like A Ballet Dancer She Took A Leap Towards Him, And He, Frightened By Her Vehemence, And Fearing That She Would Crash Against Him, Instinctively Became Absolutely Rigid, And She Felt Herself Embracing A Statue.

What Everyone Forgets Is That Passion Is Not Merely A Heightened Sensual Fusion But A Way Of Life Which Produces, As In The Mystics, An Ecstatic Awareness Of The Whole Of Life.