Death carries off a man busy picking flowers with an besotted mind, like a great flood does a sleeping village.
Gautama BuddhaRead
The fool who thinks he is wise is just a fool. The fool who knows he is a fool is wise indeed.
Interpretation
True wisdom comes from recognizing one's own ignorance.
This quote by Gautama Buddha highlights the difference between genuine wisdom and mere self-deception. A person who believes they are wise without acknowledging their limitations is simply foolish, while the one who understands their own foolishness possesses real wisdom, as it shows self-awareness and humility.
In practice
In a discussion about personal growth and learning, this quote can serve as a reminder of the importance of humility.
Death carries off a man busy picking flowers with an besotted mind, like a great flood does a sleeping village.
A kind man who makes good use of wealth is rightly said to possess a great treasure; but the miser who hoards up his riches will have no profit.
There are having flowers in Spring, breezes in Summer, moon in Autumn, snows in Winter. If there is nothing worrying over you, it will be the best seasons at all times.
Make an island of yourself, make yourself your refuge; there is no other refuge. Make truth your island, make truth your refuge; there is no other refuge.
When a wise man is advised of his errors, he will reflect on and improve his conduct. When his misconduct is pointed out, a foolish man will not only disregard the advice but rather repeat the same error.
The tongue like a sharp knife ... Kills without drawing blood.
If we wish to follow Christ closely, we cannot choose an easy, quiet life. It will be a demanding life, but full of joy.
Don't worry about having the right words; worry more about having the right heart. It's not eloquence he seeks, just honesty.
This grieved me heartily ; and now I saw, though too late, the folly of beginning a work before we count the cost, and before we judge rightly of our own strength to go through with it.
That was what her parents did not understand—and had never understood—about stories. Liza told herself storied as though she was weaving and knotting an endless rope. Then, no matter how dark or terrible the pit she found herself in, she could pull herself out, inch by inch and hand over hand, on the long rope of stories.
The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and must therefore be treated with great caution.
Ask yourself: if I were a Chinese spy, why wouldn't I have flown directly into Beijing? I could be living in a palace petting a phoenix by now.
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