Often The Hands Will Solve A Mystery

In The Final Analysis, We Count For Something Only Because Of The Essential That We Embody. If We Do Not Embody That, Life Is Wasted.

Life Has Always Seemed To Me Like A Plant That Lives On Its Rhizome. Its True Life Is Invisible, Hidden In The Rhizome. The Part That Appears Above Ground Lasts Only A Single Summer. Then It Withers Away—an Ephemeral Apparition. When We Think Of The Unending Growth And Decay Of Life And Civilizations, We Cannot Escape The Impression Of Absolute Nullity. Yet I Have Never Lost A Sense Of Something That Lives And Endures Underneath The Eternal Flux. What We See Is The Blossom, Which Passes. The Rhizome Remains.

We Do Not Feel As If We Were Producing The Dreams, It Is Rather As If The Dreams Came To Us. They Are Not Subject To Our Control But Obey Their Own Laws.

Where Wisdom Reigns, There Is No Conflict Between Thinking And Feeling.

In Knowing Ourselves To Be Unique, We Possess The Capacity For Becoming Conscious Of The Infinite. But Only Then!