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The history of the cosmos_x000D__x000D_is the history of the struggle of becoming._x000D__x000D_When the dim flux of unformed life_x000D__x000D_struggled, convulsed back and forth upon itself,_x000D__x000D_and broke at last into light and dark_x000D__x000D_came into existence as light,_x000D__x000D_came into existence as cold shadow_x000D__x000D_then every atom of the cosmos trembled with delight.
The great home of the soul is the open road.
Unless one decorates one's house for oneself alone, best leave it bare, for other people are walleyed.
I do esteem individual liberty above everything. What is a nation for, but to secure the maximum liberty to every individual?
If only we could live two lives: the first in which to make one's mistakes, and the second in which to profit by them.
How beautiful maleness is, if it finds its right expression.
The human consciousness is really homogeneous. There is no complete forgetting, even in death.
The living self has one purpose only: to come into its own fullness of being, as a tree comes into full blossom, or a bird into spring beauty, or a tiger into lustre.
Only the flow matters; live and let live, love and let love. There is no point in love.
I believe the nearest I've come to perfect love was with a young coal-miner when I was about 16.
The great living experience for every man is his adventure into the woman. The man embraces in the woman all that is not himself, and from that one resultant, from that embrace, comes every new action.
Curse the blasted, jelly-boned swines, the slimy, the belly-wriggling invertebrates, the miserable soddingrotters, the flaming sods, the sniveling, dribbling, dithering, palsied, pulse-less lot that make up England today. They've got white of egg in their veins, and their spunk is that watery it's a marvel they can breed.
Freedom is a very great reality, but it means above all things, freedom from lies.
That which one cannot experience in daily life is not true for oneself.
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
And what's romance? Usually, a nice little tale where you have everything As You Like It, where rain never wets your jacket and gnats never bite your nose and it's always daisy-time.
Brute force crushes many plants. Yet the plants rise again. The Pyramids will not last a moment compared with the daisy. And before Buddha or Jesus spoke the nightingale sang, and long after the words of Jesus and Buddha are gone into oblivion the nightingale still will sing. Because it is neither preaching nor commanding nor urging. It is just singing. And in the beginning it was not a Word, but a chirrup.
But the effort, the effort! And as the marrow is eaten out of a man's bones and the soul out of his belly, contending with the strange rapacity of savage life, the lower stage of creation, he cannot make the effort any more.
Another head - and a black alpaca jacket and a serviette this time - to tell us coffee is ready. Not before it is time, too.
Never trust the teller, trust the tale.
Men always do leave off really thinking, when the last bit of wild animal dies in them.
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