Quotes
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Give the pond a place to stay, it will kick it out of the house.
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Whose is the priest, whose is the priest (for me, the daughter).
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Stepping on and being trampled, eating and being eaten: that's life.
To wear stepping on and being trampled, eating and being gobbled up: that is existence.
To follow his whim is to wrap oneself in life. He who follows his need, wraps himself in existence.
He who loves, hates, craves, is disgusted: this is the living. He who bears the coherent calmly: this is the existent.
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"What you give to me, you give to all", proclaims the power on earth.
"What you give to all, you give to me," proclaims the heavenly power.
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Morality, which you wear compulsively and unkindly: it is not virtue, but weakness.
Virtue is always prominent. There is no sin that is not nearer to virtue than a multitude of shrinking pseudo-virtues.
If you have virtue, the test of it is that you feel not the yoke of your virtue, but its splendor, its lusciousness, its power.
If you're virtuous, the test of it is that you love virtue and sin alike, and without covetousness.
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Read poems in languages you don't understand. Not a lot, just a few lines at a time, but several in a row. Ignore their meanings, but if possible know their original pronunciation and sound.
This way you will get to know the music of languages and the inner music of the creative souls. And you can come to the point where you can read the texts of your mother tongue independently of their content; only in this way can you experience the inner, true beauty of the poem, its disembodied dance.
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He who begins to dismantle his individuality loses more and more the boundary between his own soul and the souls of others. When he looks into the eyes of his fellow man, he senses his feelings and recognises: 'this is me'; when he strokes a dog, he senses its world merging into one: 'this is me'; when he touches a piece of furniture for a long time, he takes in its indivisible silence: 'this is me'. His own soul is no longer his own, and the soul of everything is his own; everything is transparent, as if it were made of crystal; at once immensely rich, his body and soul are refreshed and filled with the same joy of work, rest, company, solitude.
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A bright face looks out over the forest-covered valley. The tarn answers like a woman.
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To believe that we can retreat from passion is as madness as seriously believing that we can build a house of sand and shelter in the middle of the desert from the simoom.
Passion is as much the reason for our lives as reason, moderation and prudent defence. Only he who can give himself over to the passions of his body and character with the moderation and sincerity of his nature can be a complete man, and one who can be a man of intelligent obedience to the order of nature. But he will not be an animal, because he knows the limits where he must cling tooth and nail in the gale that has overtaken him, to the limits of reason. Do not deny the body, but treat it with dignity and superiority, as the trainer treats the beast. Deny not ambition, but mark its limits. Do not deny the senses, but walk and wake in the rebellion of your senses as a captain among the mutinous sailors of a ship in a storm: with rigour, understanding, unquestioning and heroic. You cannot do otherwise.It is the best a man can do.
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Spread your treasures - let yourself become wealth.
Spread your ornaments - let yourself become beauty.
Forget your entertainments - let yourself become merriment.
Burn your books - let yourself become wisdom.
Waste your muscles - let yourself become strength.
Extinguish your flames - let yourself become love.
Banish your pity - let yourself become goodness.
Shed your beliefs - let yourself become faith.
Break through your barriers - let yourself become the world.
Unite your life and death - let wholeness become you yourself.