All spiritual journeys are martyrdoms.

We delight in the beauty of the butterfly$$$ but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.

They did more than take our youth away. They also took away the men we were going to be.

Conceit spoils the finest genius.

How can you be true and kind at the same time? How?

Who loves a garden still his Eden keeps.

I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.

He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.

What is most truly valuable is often underrated.

Somewhere in the depths of solitude$$$ beyond wilderness and freedom$$$ lay the trap of madness.