“I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me.”

Every experience has its element of magic.

As a body everyone is single, as a soul never.

Faith and doubt go hand in hand, they are complementaries. One who never doubts will never truly believe.

Art is the contemplation of the world in a state of grace.

Never is a man wholly a saint or a sinner.

Loneliness is the way by which destiny endeavors to lead man to himself.

Love your suffering. Do not resist it, do not flee from it. It is only your aversion to it that hurts, nothing else.

We have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness.

Life is waiting everywhere, the future is flowering everywhere, but we only see a small part of it and step on much of it with our feet

If I know what love is, it is because of you.

Seriousness is an accident of time. It consists of putting too high a value on time. In eternity there is no time. Eternity is a moment, just long enough for a joke.

All life was a breath exhaled by God. All dying was a breath inhaled by God.

To die is to go into the Collective Unconscious, to lose oneself in order to be transformed into form, pure form.

I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.

A man who is ill-adjusted to the world is always on the verge of finding himself. One who is adjusted to the world never finds himself, but gets to be a cabinet minister.

God does not send us despair in order to kill us; he sends it in order to awaken us to new life.

The heart has no tears to give,–it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence.

Shame bleeds through generation to generation. That is not the legacy I wish for you.

Do you love your idea? Does it feel right on instinct? Are you willing to bleed for it?

Misery doesn’t love just any company it desires the kind presence only loneliness feeds but that’s not love at all. – love doesn’t eat it bleeds.

I woke up with the warrior in my blood.

It’s in my genes. My mother was an opera singer. I’m clearly dramatic.

Negro blood is sure powerful, because just one drop of black blood makes a colored man. One drop–you are a Negro! . . . Black is powerful.

I am quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood. I had, as I now think vainly, flattered myself that without very much bloodshed it might be done.