Under All That We Think,

The Deepest Words Of The Wise Man Teach Us The Same As The Whistle Of The Wind When It Blows Or The Sound Of The Water When It Is Flowing.

The Only Living Language Is The Language In Which We Think And Have Our Being.

Between Living And Dreaming There Is A Third Thing. Guess It.

I Dreamt -- Marvellous Error! -- That I Had A Beehive Here Inside My Heart. And The Golden Bees Were Making White Combs And Sweet Honey From My Old Failures.

The Unpublished Manuscript Is Like An Uncon-fessed Sin That Festers In The Soul, Corrupting And Contaminating It.