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> God finds himself by creating. > Men are cruel, but Man is kind. > Praise shames me, for I secretly beg for it. > That I exist is a perpetual surprise which is life. > Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song. > In Art, man reveals himself and not his objects. > The sparrow is sorry for the peacock at the burden of his tail. > He, who wants to do good, knocks at the gate; he who loves finds the gate open. > A mind all logic is like a knife all blade. It makes the hand bleed that uses it. > Everything comes to us that belong to us if we create the capacity to receive it. > Let the dead have the immortality of fame, but the living the immortality of love. > Let us not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless when facing them. > Love adorns itself; it seeks to prove inward joy by outward beauty. > Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it. > I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung. > I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I woke up and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy. > Those who have everything but thee, my God, laugh at those who have nothing but thyself. > Death belongs to life as birth does. The walk is in the raising of the foot as in the laying of it down. > The highest education is that which does not merely give us information but makes our life in harmony with all existence. > Whatever we treasure for ourselves separates us from others; our possessions are our limitations. > There are two kinds of adventurers: those who go truly hoping to find adventure and those who go secretly hoping they won't. > If you cry because the sun has gone out of your life, your tears will prevent you from seeing the stars. > Asks the Possible of the Impossible, "Where is your dwelling-place?" "In the dreams of the Impotent," comes the answer. > The fish in the water is silent, the animal on the earth is noisy, the bird in the air is singing. But man has in him the silence of the sea, the noise of the earth and the music of the air. > The question why there is evil in existence is the same as why there is imperfection>. But this is the real question we ought to ask: Is this imperfection the final truth; is evil absolute and ultimate? > The touch of an infinite mystery passes over the trivial and the familiar, making it break out into ineffable music>. The trees, the stars, and the blue hills ache with a meaning which can never be uttered in words. > The tragedy of human life consists in our vain attempts to stretch the limits of things which can never become unlimited, and to reach the infinite by absurdly adding to the rungs of the ladder of the finite. > Things are distinct not in their essence but in their appearance; in other words, in their relation to one to whom they appear. This is art, the truth of which is not in substance or logic, but in expression. Abstract truth may belong to science and metaphysics, but the world of reality belongs to art. > There are men whose idea of life is tactic, who long for its continuation after death only because of their wish for permanence and not perfection; they love to imagine that the things to which they are accustomed will persist for ever. They completely identify themselves in their minds with their fixed surroundings and with whatever they have gathered, and to have to leave these is death for them. They forget that the true meaning of living is outliving, it is ever growing out of itself. > In love all the contradictions of existence merge themselves and are lost. Only in love are unity and duality not at variance. Love must be one and two at the sometime. Only love is motion and rest in one. Our heart ever changes its place till it finds love, and then it has its rest. Bondage and liberation are not antagonistic in love, for love is most free and at the same time most bound. |
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