Man's Progress Is But A Gradual Discovery

When I Opened My Eyes I Saw Nothing But The Pool Of Nocturnal Sky, For I Was Lying On My Back With Out-stretched Arms, Face To Face With That Hatchery Of Stars. Only Half Awake, Still Unaware That Those Depths Were Sky, Having No Roof Between Those Depths And Me, No Branches To Screen Them, No Root To Cling To, I Was Seized With Vertigo And Felt Myself As If Flung Forth And Plunging Downward Like A Diver.

Whoever Loves Above All The Approach Of Love Will Never Know The Joy Of Attaining It.

As For The Future, Your Task Is Not To Foresee It, But To Enable It.

On A Day Of Burial There Is No Perspective--for Space Itself Is Annihilated. Your Dead Friend Is Still A Fragmentary Being. The Day You Bury Him Is A Day Of Chores And Crowds, Of Hands False Or True To Be Shaken, Of The Immediate Cares Of Mourning. The Dead Friend Will Not Really Die Until Tomorrow, When Silence Is Round You Again. Then He Will Show Himself Complete, As He Was--to Tear Himself Away, As He Was, From The Substantial You. Only Then Will You Cry Out Because Of Him Who Is Leaving And Whom You Cannot Detain.

He Sat Down. I Sat Down Next To Him. And After A Silence, He Spoke Again. 'the Stars Are Beautiful Because Of A Flower You Don't See...' I Answered, 'yes, Of Course.