“When we look outside of that on which we depend we ignore our unity; looking outward we see many faces; look inward and all is one head.”

Become vision itself.

As the eye waits on the rising of the Sun which in its own time appears above the horizon and gives itself to our sight.

And this is the life of the Gods, and of Godlike men, a life without love of the world, a flight of the Alone to the Alone.

The stars are like letters that inscribe themselves at every moment in the sky.

Mankind is poised midway between the gods and the beasts.

In this state of absorbed contemplation, there is no longer any question of holding an object in view.

There is one and the same soul in many bodies.

Beauty addresses itself chiefly to sight, but there is a beauty for the hearing too.

If someone with the right conduct tries to attain to something that lies outside of it, is his goal not the right conduct.

Life here with the things of the earth is a sinking, a defeat, a failing of the wing.

Before we had our becoming here, we existed There, men other than now; we were pure souls.

One word was uttered and from every side an ear attended and received and there was an effective hearing.

It is bad enough to be condemned to drag around this image in which nature has imprisoned me.

Knowing ourselves, we are beautiful; in self-ignorance, we are ugly.

Clearly, either in the Soul alone, or in the Soul as employing the body, or in some third entity deriving from both. And for this third entity, again, there are two possible modes: it might be either a blend or a distinct form due to the blending.

One principle must make the universe a single complex living creature, one from all.

But I can’t ignore that there are things that inspire me, and I love celebrating those.

I’m just a kid that defied the odds. I’m just a kid that ignored the doubt. I’m just a kid from a little place in Dublin, Ireland, that went all the way, and I’m going to continue to go all the way.

Fools ignore complexity. Pragmatists suffer it. Some can avoid it. Geniuses remove it.

But all you can do is ignore the annoying hum of the machine and focus on making art that makes you excited to be alive.

it is sometimes hard to tell what is real. We often invent what isn’t there. Or ignore what is.

Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them and Heaven protects them.

Out of the millions of people we live among, most of whom we habitually ignore and are ignored by in turn, there are always a few that hold hostage our capacity for happiness, whom we could recognize by their smell alone and whom we would rather die than be without.

So many complaints boil down to the belly ache of the fragile, mortal, ignored ego in a vast and indifferent universe.