Solitude Is Independence.

Every Path Leads Homeward, Every Step Is Birth, Every Step Is Death, Every Grave Is Mother.

Only The Ideas That We Really Live Have Any Value.

He Looked Around, As If He Was Seeing The World For The First Time. Beautiful Was The World, Colorful Was The World, Strange And Mysterious Was The World! Here Was Blue, Here Was Yellow, Here Was Green, The Sky And The River Flowed, The Forest And The Mountains Were Rigid, All Of It Was Beautiful, All Of It Was Mysterious And Magical, And In Its Midst Was He, Siddhartha, The Awakening One, On The Path To Himself.

All Higher Humor Begins With Ceasing To Take Oneself Seriously.

Beautiful Was This World, Looking At It Thus, Without Searching, Thus Simply, Thus Childlike.