“Gratitude is what we are without a story.”

It’s not what happens in life that bothers us. It’s what we’re believing about it that bothers us.

That’s what every uncomfortable feeling is for-that’s what pain is for, what money is for, what everything in the world is for: your self-realization.

The only difference between heaven and hell is believing a thought.

You move totally away from reality when you believe that there is a legitimate reason to suffer”.

So there’s only transcendence in the moment. Nobody can be transcended forever. That’s why I say, “Who cares if you’re enlightened forever?”

Life just happens. It’s what you’re believing about life that makes you suffer.

That’s the purpose of stress. It’s a friend. It’s an alarm clock, built in to let you know that it’s time to do The Work.

The only way I can be angry at you is when I have thought, said, or done something that is unkind in my own opinion.

When you say or do anything to please, get, keep, influence, or control anyone or anything, fear is the cause and pain is the result.

The mind usually says, “I know, I know, I know.” But the “don’t-know mind” is where wisdom lives.

When we’re not defending and justifying, and we’re being very still, our answers can and do shock us.

Any thought of discomfort or stress is an alarm that lets you know you’re believing an untrue thought.

It’s difficult to seek other people’s love. It’s deadly. In seeking it you lose what is genuine. This is the prison we create for ourselves as we seek what we already have.

Nothing outside you can ever give you what you’re looking for.

Who would you be without the thought that happiness depends on someone else?

After you’ve been doing inquiry for a while, if you have the thought “She doesn’t love me,” you just get the immediate turnaround with a smile: “Oh, I’m not loving myself in this moment.”

Only the intelligent knows how to identify all things as one. When one is at ease with himself, one is near Tao. This is to let Nature take its own course.

When you are identified with the One, all things will be complete to you.

I don’t know who I am or who I was. I know it less than ever. I do and I don’t identify myself with myself. Everything is totally contradictory, but maybe I have remained exactly as I was as a small boy of twelve.

The powerful hold in deep remembrance an ill-timed pleasantry. [Lat., Facetiarum apud praepotentes in longum memoria est.]

I am my nearest neighbour.

To rob, to ravage, to murder, in their imposing language, are the arts of civil policy. When they have made the world a solitude, they call it peace.

They make solitude, which they call peace.

The Romans brought devestation, but they called it peace.