It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. ... So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling, on tiptoes and no luggage, not even a sponge bag, completely unencumbered.

When there is love, self is not.

To be left alone on the tightrope of youthful unknowing is to experience the excruciating beauty of full freedom and the threat of eternal indecision. Few, if any, survive their teens. Most surrender to the vague but murderous pressure of adult conformity. It becomes easier to die and avoid conflict than to maintain a constant battle with the superior forces of maturity.

Beauty is something that burns the hand when you touch it.

“And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'”

Like everybody else in the world, for you, things got in the way: small troubles, big troubles, continuous slammings and bangings. You had to be in condition to endure what was trying to kill you. That's the message I got from watching the fights, or watching the horses run, or the way the jocks kept overcoming bad luck, spills on the track and personal little horrors off the track. I wrote about life, haha. But what really astonished me was the immense courage of some of the people living that life. That kept me going.

I am polite. I nod. I pretend to understand because I don't want anybody to be hurt. That is the one weakness that has lead me into the most trouble. Trying to be kind to others I often get my soul shredded into a kind of spiritual pasta. No matter. My brain shuts off. I listen. I respond. And they are too dumb to know that I am not there. The drinks poured and Jon-Luc kept talking. I'm sure that he said many astonishing things. I simply focused on his eyebrows...

It occurred to me that everybody suffered continually, including those who pretended they didn’t.

The kids sit about sipping at their coffees and waiting for it to happen. It isn’t going to happen.

Thirty-eight years old and he was finished. He sipped at the coffee and remembered where he had gone wrong - or right. He'd simply gotten tired - of the insurance game, of the small offices and high glass partitions, the clients; he'd simply gotten tired of cheating on his wife, of squeezing secretaries in the elevator and in the halls; he'd gotten tired of Christmas parties and New Year's parties and birthdays, and payments on new cars and furniture payments - light, gas, water - the whole bleeding complex of necessities. He'd gotten tired and quit, that's all. The divorce came soon enough and the drinking came soon enough, and suddenly he was out of it. He had nothing, and he found out that having nothing was difficult too. It was another type of burden. If only there were some gentler road in between. It seemed a man only had two choices - get in on the hustle or be a bum.

It’s funny. No matter where you go, or how many books you read, you still know nothing, you haven’t seen anything. And that’s life.

Ljudje smo predvsem odnosna bitja. Samo v odnosu se lahko brusimo in osebnostno napredujemo. Partner nam vsak dan lahko pokaže zrcalo in v njem se ugledamo (če smo seveda pametni). Tako lahko spreminjamo svoje napake oziroma se za to vsaj trudimo. Samski takšnih možnosti nimajo in sčasoma postanejo pravi čudaki. V situaciji, ko bi se morali prilagoditi in spremeniti svoje obnašanje ter razmišljanje (kar je dostikrat boleče) se vedno lahko umaknejo v svoj svet.

I remember an evening, it could have been 10 p.m., there were a dozen or so of us in a bar and everyone was talking with great animation about the merits of various clubs, the ones that were more house, the others more trance. For ten minutes I was dying to say to them that I, too, wanted to enter this world, to have fun with them, to stay up all night; I was ready to beg them to take me. Then, by accident, I saw my reflection in a window, and I understood. I looked my forty-something years; my face was careworn, stiff, marked by the experience of life, by responsibilities and sorrows; I didn't look at all like someone you could imagine having fun. I was condemned.

Do you want, my brother, to go into isolation? Do you want to seek the way to yourself? Then pause a while longer and listen to me.
"He who seeks will himself easily become lost. All isolation is guild": thus speaks the herd. And you have long belonged to the herd.
The voice of the herd will still resound in you too. And if you will say, "I no longer have one conscience with you," it will be a lament and an agony.
Behold, this agony was itself born from the one conscience: and the final glimmer of this conscience still glows upon your misery.
But you want to go the way of your misery, which is the way to yourself? Then show me your right and your strength for that!
Are you a new strength and a new right? A first movement? A self-propelling wheel? Can you compel the very stars to revolve around you?
Ah, there is so much lusting for the heights! There is so much convulsion of the ambitious! Show me that you are not one of the lustful and ambitious!
Ah, there are so many great thoughts that do no more than a bellows: they just inflate and make emptier.
Free, you call yourself? Your ruling thought would I hear then, and not that you have escaped from a yoke.
Are you such as has the right to escape from a yoke? There are some who threw off their last shred of worth when they threw off their servitude.
Free from what? What is that to Zarathustra! Brightly shall your eye announce to me: free for what?
Can you give yourself your own evil and your own good, and hang your will over yourself as a law? Can you be your own judge and avenger of your law?
Terrible it is to be alone with the judge and avenger of one's own law. Thus is a star thrown out into desolate space and into the icy breath of being alone.
Today you still suffer from the many, you singular one: today you still have your courage whole and your hopes.
But one day solitude will make you weary, one day your pride will buckle and your courage gnash its teeth. One day you will cry, "I am alone!"
One day you will see what is lofty in you no longer and what is base all-too-closely; even what is sublime in you will frighten you like a spectre. One day you will cry: "Everything is false!"
There are feelings that want to kill the solitary; if they do not succeed, well, then they themselves must die! But are you capable of being a murderer?
Do you, my brother, already know the word "despising"? And the anguish of your righteousness in being righteous toward those who despise you?
You compel many relearn about you: that they will hold against you. You came close to them and yet passed them by: that they will never forgive you.
You pass over and beyond them: but the higher you climb, the smaller you appear to the eye of envy. But most hated of all is the one who can fly.
"How could you want to be just toward me!" - you must say - "I myself choose your injustice as my allotted portion."
Injustice and filth they throw at the solitary: but, my brother, if you want to be a star, you must shine no less brightly for them on that account!
And beware of the good and the righteous! They like to crucify those who invent their own virtue for themselves - they hate the solitary.
Beware also of the holy unity! For it, all that is not unitary is unholy; it also likes to play with fire - especially at the stake.
And beware also of the attacks of your love! Too quickly does the solitary extend his hand to anyone he meets.
To some people you may give not your hand, but only a slap with a paw: and I would that your paw might also have claws.
But the worst enemy you can encounter will always be yourself; you lie in wait for yourself in caves and forests.
You solitary, you are going the way to yourself! And your way leads past yourself, and past your Seven Devils!
A heretic will you be to yourself, and a witch and soothsayer and fool, and doubter and unholy man and scoundrel.
You must want to consume yourself in your own flame: how could you want to become new unless you have first become ashes!
You solitary, you are going the way of the creator: a God you would create for yourself out of your Seven Devils!
You solitary, you are going the way of the lover: yourself do you love, and therefore you despise yourself, as only lovers can despise.
The lover wants to create, because he despises! What does he know of love who has not had to despise precisely what he loved!
With your love go into your isolation, and with your creating, my brother: and only later will righteousness limp along after you.
With my tears go into your isolation, my brother. I love him who wants to create beyond himself and thereby perishes.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Whoever loves becomes humble. Those who love have, so to speak, pawned a part of their narcissism.

Even by the twenty-second century, no way had yet been discovered of keeping elderly and conservative scientists from occupying crucial administrative positions. Indeed, it was doubted if the problem ever would be solved.

Faith, I am no such fool; everyone for himself in this desert of selfishness which is called life.

Life is trouble. Only death is not. To be alive is to undo your belt and look for trouble.

When everything goes wrong, what a joy to test your soul and see if it has endurance and courage! An invisible and all-powerful enemy—some call him God, others the Devil, seem to rush upon us to destroy us; but we are not destroyed.

The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler is to look at the men he has around him.

A healthy man is not an entity; he is a process, a dynamic process. Or we can say that a healthy man is not a noun but a verb, not a river but a rivering. He is continuously flowing in all dimensions, overflowing.

I do believe you think what now you speak;
But what we do determine oft we break.
Purpose is but the slave to memory,
Of violent birth, but poor validity;
Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree,
But fall unshaken when they mellow be.
Most necessary 'tis that we forget
To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt.
What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
The violence of either grief or joy
Their own enactures with themselves destroy.
Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;
Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.
This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange
That even our loves should with our fortunes change;
For 'tis a question left us yet to prove,
Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
The great man down, you mark his favourite flies,
The poor advanc'd makes friends of enemies;
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend,
For who not needs shall never lack a friend,
And who in want a hollow friend doth try,
Directly seasons him his enemy.
But, orderly to end where I begun,
Our wills and fates do so contrary run
That our devices still are overthrown;
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
So think thou wilt no second husband wed;
But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.

Tolerating the distortion of history is the first step toward tolerating humiliation in real life.

I admit that twice two makes four is an excellent thing, but if we are to give everything its due, twice two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too.

What does one person give to another? He gives of himself, of the most precious he has, he gives of his life. This does not necessarily mean that he sacrifices his life for the other—but that he gives him of that which is alive in him; he gives him of his joy, of his interest, of his understanding, of his knowledge, of his humor, of his sadness—of all expressions and manifestations of that which is alive in him. In thus giving of his life, he enriches the other person, he enhances the other's sense of aliveness by enhancing his own sense of aliveness. He does not give in order to receive; giving is in itself exquisite joy. But in giving he cannot help bringing something to life in the other person, and this which is brought to life reflects back to him.

Modern man has transformed himself into a commodity; he experiences his life energy as an investment with which he should make the highest profit, considering his position and the situation on the personality market. He is alienated from himself, from his fellow men and from nature. His main aim is profitable exchange of his skills, knowledge, and of himself, his "personality package" with others who are equally intent on a fair and profitable exchange. Life has no goal except the one to move, no principle except the one of fair exchange, no satisfaction except the one to consume.

Love isn't something natural. Rather it requires discipline, concentration, patience, faith, and the overcoming of narcissism. It isn't a feeling, it is a practice.

August smiled. "Love me a little bit less but love me a long time." He looked away. "That's my favorite line from a French movie."

It was strange how beauty and youth and dick size trumped wealth, culture, kindness, and all the other virtues, though no one admitted it. We pretend we like the civilized and the good, but our thermometers measure only physical heat. We bend to the will of the rich or titled or famous, but only intermittently; we want to go home with the camel boy, not the overweight, overperfumed sheikh.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

I walked around the block twice, passed 200 people and failed to see a human being.

Beauty is nothing, beauty won’t stay. You don’t know how lucky you are to be ugly, because if people like you, you know it’s for something else.

The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them.

I felt like crying but nothing came out. It was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can't feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. But I think I have known it pretty often, too often.

If, however, you are indulgent, but unable to make your authority felt; kind-hearted, but unable to enforce your commands; and incapable, moreover, of quelling disorder: then your soldiers must be likened to spoilt children; they are useless for any practical purpose.

The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survived, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as How, Why and Where phases. For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question "How can we eat?" the second by the question "Why do we eat?" and the third by the question "Where shall we have lunch?"

Na obzorju neskončnega. - Zapustili smo kopno in se odpeljali z ladjo! Za seboj smo podrli most - še več, za seboj smo podrli kopno! Barčica, zdaj se pa le pazi! Ob tebi valovi ocean, že res, da ne rjove zmeraj in ta trenutek mirno počiva, sama ljuba svila in zlato in sanjarija dobrote. Vendar pridejo ure, ko boš spoznala, da je neskončen in da ni nič strašnejšega kakor neskončnost. O, bedni ptiček, ki se je počutil prostega, pa se takole zaleti ob stene te kletke! Gorje, če te popade domotožje po kopnem, kakor da je bilo tam več prostosti - in ne bo nikjer več "kopnega"!

You have the freedom to be yourself, your true self, here and now, and nothing can stand in your way.

The present generation sees everything clearly, it is amazed and laughs at the folly of its ancestors...and self-confidently enters on a fresh set of errors at which their descendants will laugh again later on.

Love us dirty, for any one will love us clean.

The past is always beautiful. So, for that matter, is the future. Only the present hurts, and we carry it around like an abscess of suffering, our compassion between two infinities of happiness and peace.

The truth is rarely pure and never simple.

He must be living a life free of worries. But viewed from his perspective, looking at me from his side of the valley, I might appear to also be living a life of ease and leisure. From a distance, most things look beautiful.

Why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for example, or a fine evening or conversation with people we like, why does it all seem to be a hint of some limitless happiness existing somewhere else rather than a real happiness, the kind, that is, we possess ourselves?

"What's this? Am I falling? My legs are giving way," thought he, and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle of the Frenchmen with the gunners ended, whether the red-haired gunner had been killed or not and whether the cannon had been captured or saved. But he saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the sky- the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds gliding slowly across it. "How quiet, peaceful, and solemn; not at all as I ran," thought Prince Andrew- "not as we ran, shouting and fighting, not at all as the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened and angry faces struggled for the mop: how differently do those clouds glide across that lofty infinite sky! How was it I did not see that lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes! All is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing, but that. But even it does not exist, there is nothing but quiet and peace."

Sometimes he remembered having heard how soldiers under fire in the trenches, and having nothing to do, try hard to find some occupation the more easily to bear the danger. It seemed to Pierre that all men were like those soldiers, seeking refuge from life: some in ambition, some in cards, some in framing laws, some in women, some in playthings, some in horses, some in politics, some in sport, some in wine, and some in government service. 'Nothing is without consequence, and nothing is important: it's all the same in the end. The thing to do is to save myself from it all as best I can,' thought Pierre. Not to see IT, that terrible IT.

We are stories, contained within the twenty complicated centimeters behind our eyes...

Sit immovably in the place where being superior or inferior to others doesn't matter.

Men in general don’t know how to live: they have no true familiarity with life, and never feel entirely at ease in it, so they pursue different projects, more or less ambitious and more or less grandiose – generally speaking, of course, they fail and reach the conclusion that they would have been better off just living, but as a rule by that point it’s too late.

Bad people are to be found everywhere, but even among the worst there may be something good.

It occurred to him that he had not spent his life as he should have done. It occurred to him that his scarcely perceptible attempts to struggle against what was considered good by the most highly placed people, those scarcely noticeable impulses which he had immediately suppressed, might have been the real thing, and all the rest false. And his professional duties and the whole arrangement of his life and of his family, and all his social and official interests, might all have been false.

Ta svet je lep, če nekomu nekaj daš. Ta svet je lep, če nekoga rad imaš, če stisneš roko komu, ki ga kaj boli. Ta svet je lep, če si človek do ljudi.

"Rabbit's clever", said Pooh thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit's clever."
"And he has Brain."
There was a long silence.
"I suppose," said Pooh, "that that's why he never understands anything."

One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.

My dear friend, what is this our life? A boat that swims in the sea, and all one knows for certain about it is that one day it will capsize. Here we are, two good old boats that have been faithful neighbors, and above all your hand has done its best to keep me from "capsizing"! Let us then continue our voyage—each for the other's sake, for a long time yet, a long time! We should miss each other so much! Tolerably calm seas and good winds and above all sun—what I wish for myself, I wish for you, too, and am sorry that my gratitude can find expression only in such a wish and has no influence at all on wind or weather!

The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.

If other people do not understand our behaviour - so what? Their request that we must only do what they understand is an attempt to dictate to us. If this is being 'asocial' or 'irrational' in their eyes, so be it. Mostly they resent our freedom and our courage to be ourselves. We owe nobody an explanation or an accounting, as long as our acts do not hurt or infringe on them. How many lives have been ruined by this need to 'explain', which usually implies that the explanation be 'understood', i.e., approved. Let your deeds be judged, and from your deeds your real intentions, but know that a free person owes an explanation only to himself - to his reason and his conscience - and to the few who may have a justified claim for explanation.

It takes strength to remember, it takes another kind of strength to forget, it takes a hero to do both. People who remember court madness through pain, the pain of the perpetually recurring death of their innocence; people who forget court another kind of madness, the madness of the denial of pain and the hatred of innocence; and the world is mostly divided between madmen who remember and madmen who forget. Heroes are rare.

Ampak ljudje, ljudje se ne trudijo. Ljudje radi pupajo, papajo, mehko se otrebijo in trdo vtikajo, oprostite.

When we die there are two things we can leave behind us: genes and memes. We were built as gene machines, created to pass on our genes. But that aspect of us will be forgotten in three generations. Your child, even your grandchild, may bear a resemblance to you, perhaps in facial features, in a talent for music, in the colour of her hair. But as each generation passes, the contribution of your genes is halved. It does not take long to reach negligible proportions. Our genes may be immortal but the collection of genes that is any one of us is bound to crumble away. Elizabeth II is a direct descendant of William the Conqueror. Yet it is quite probable that she bears not a single one of the old king’s genes. We should not seek immortality in reproduction. But if you contribute to the world’s culture, if you have a good idea, compose a tune, invent a sparking plug, write a poem, it may live on, intact, long after your genes have dissolved in the common pool. Socrates may or may not have a gene or two alive in the world today, as G. C. Williams has remarked, but who cares? The meme complexes of Socrates, Leonardo, Copernicus and Marconi are still going strong.

The prince says that the world will be saved by beauty! And I maintain that the reason he has such playful ideas is that he is in love.

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.

The world says: "You have needs -- satisfy them. You have as much right as the rich and the mighty. Don't hesitate to satisfy your needs; indeed, expand your needs and demand more." This is the worldly doctrine of today. And they believe that this is freedom. The result for the rich is isolation and suicide, for the poor, envy and murder.